GALLEGHER 

AND    OTHER    STORIES 


BY 

RICHARD   HARDING   DAVIS 


With  Illustrations  by  Charles  Dana  Gibson 


CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
NEW  YORK:::::::::::::::::i9o4 


COPYRIGHT,  1891,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Stack 

T$ 


tro 

MY   MOTHER 


CONTENTS 


GALLEGHER  :  A  NEWSPAPER  STORY      ....  I 

A  WALK  UP  THE  AVENUE 55 

MY  DISREPUTABLE  FRIEND,  MR.   RAEGEN      .     .  67 

THE  OTHER  WOMAN .     .  99 

THE  TRAILER  FOR  ROOM  No,   8 125 

"THERE    WERE    NlNETY    AND    NlNE  "      ....  143 

THE  CYNICAL  Miss  CATHERWAIGHT    .     .     .     .  175 

VAN  BIBBER  AND  THE  SWAN-BOATS      ....  201 

VAN  BIBBER'S  BURGLAR 211 

VAN  BIBBER  AS  BEST  MAN 227 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

'Why,  it's  Gallagher!"   said  the  night  editor  .   Frontispiece 


FACING 
PAGE 


Gallegher  stood  upon  his  shoulders 24 

"For  God's  sake,"   Hade  begged,   "let  me  go"    .      .  34 

He  sprang  up,  trembling,  to  his  feet 76 

"She'd  reach  out  her  hands  and  kiss  me "  .      .      .      .  96 

««  What  can  Mr.  Lockwood  be  calling  upon  me  about?"  190 


GALLEGHER 

A  Newspaper  Story 


"Why,  it's  Gallegher  !  "    said  the  night  editor. 


Gallegher 

A  Newspaper  Story 


WE  had  had  so  many  office-boys  before  Gal 
legher  came  among  us  that  they  had  begun 
to  lose  the  characteristics  of  individuals,  and  be 
came  merged  in  a  composite  photograph  of  small 
boys,  to  whom  we  applied  the  generic  title  of 
"Here,  you";  or  "You,  boy." 

We  had  had  sleepy  boys,  and  lazy  boys,  and 
bright,  "smart"  boys,  who  became  so  familiar  on 
so  short  an  acquaintance  that  we  were  forced  to 
part  with  them  to  save  our  own  self-respect. 

They  generally  graduated  into  district-messen 
ger  boys,  and  occasionally  returned  to  us  in  blue 
coats  with  nickel-plated  buttons,  and  patronized 
us. 

But  Gallegher  was  something  different  from 
anything  we  had  experienced  before.  Gallegher 
was  short  and  broad  in  build,  with  a  solid,  mus 
cular  broadness,  and  not  a  fat  and  dumpy  short 
ness.  He  wore  perpetually  on  his  face  a  happy 
and  knowing  smile,  as  if  you  and  the  world  in 

3 


Gallegher 

general  were  not  impressing  him  as  seriously  as 
you  thought  you  were,  and  his  eyes,  which  were 
very  black  and  very  bright,  snapped  intelligently 
at  you  like  those  of  a  little  black-and-tan  terrier. 

All  Gallegher  knew  had  been  learnt  on  the 
streets;  not  a  very  good  school  in  itself,  but  one 
that  turns  out  very  knowing  scholars.  And  Gal 
legher  had  attended  both  morning  and  evening 
sessions.  He  could  not  tell  you  who  the  Pilgrim 
Fathers  were,  nor  could  he  name  the  thirteen  orig 
inal  States,  but  he  knew  all  the  officers  of  the 
twenty-second  police  district  by  name,  and  he  could 
distinguish  the  clang  of  a  fire-engine's  gong  from 
that  of  a  patrol-wagon  or  an  ambulance  fully  two 
blocks  distant.  It  was  Gallegher  who  rang  the 
alarm  when  the  Woolwich  Mills  caught  fire,  while 
the  officer  on  the  beat  was  asleep,  and  it  was  Gal 
legher  who  led  the  "Black  Diamonds"  against  the 
"Wharf  Rats,"  when  they  used  to  stone  each  other 
to  their  hearts'  content  on  the  coal-wharves  of 
Richmond. 

I  am  afraid,  now  that  I  see  these  facts  written 
down,  that  Gallegher  was  not  a  reputable  charac 
ter;  but  he  was  so  very  young  and  so  very  old  for 
his  years  that  we  all  liked  him  very  much  never 
theless.  He  lived  in  the  extreme  northern  part  of 
Philadelphia,  where  the  cotton-  and  woollen-mills 
run  down  to  the  river,  and  how  he,  ever  got  home 

4 


A  Newspaper  Story 

after  leaving  the  Press  building  at  two  in  the  morn 
ing,  was  one  of  the  mysteries  of  the  office.  Some 
times  he  caught  a  night  car,  and  sometimes  he 
walked  all  the  way,  arriving  at  the  little  house, 
where  his  mother  and  himself  lived  alone,  at  four 
in  the  morning.  Occasionally  he  was  given  a  ride 
on  an  early  milk-cart,  or  on  one  of  the  newspaper 
delivery  wagons,  with  its  high  piles  of  papers  still 
damp  and  sticky  from  the  press.  He  knew  several 
drivers  of  "night  hawks" — those  cabs  that  prowl 
the  streets  at  night  looking  for  belated  passengers 
— and  when  it  was  a  very  cold  morning  he  would 
not  go  home  at  all,  but  would  crawl  into  one  of 
these  cabs  and  sleep,  curled  up  on  the  cushions, 
until  daylight. 

Besides  being  quick  and  cheerful,  Gallegher 
possessed  a  power  of  amusing  the  Press's  young 
men  to  a  degree  seldom  attained  by  the  ordinary 
mortal.  His  clog-dancing  on  the  city  editor's  desk, 
when  that  gentleman  was  up-stairs  fighting  for  two 
more  columns  of  space,  was  always  a  source  of  in 
nocent  joy  to  us,  and  his  imitations  of  the  come 
dians  of  the  variety  halls  delighted  even  the  dra 
matic  critic,  from  whom  the  comedians  themselves 
failed  to  force  a  smile. 

But  Gallegher's  chief  characteristic  was  his  love 
for  that  element  of  news  generically  classed  as 
"crime." 


Gallegher 

Not  that  he  ever  did  anything  criminal  himself. 
On  the  contrary,  his  was  rather  the  work  of  the 
criminal  specialist,  and  his  morbid  interest  in  the 
doings  of  all  queer  characters,  his  knowledge  of 
their  methods,  their  present  whereabouts,  and  their 
past  deeds  of  transgression  often  rendered  him  a 
valuable  ally  to  our  police  reporter,  whose  daily 
feuilletons  were  the  only  portion  of  the  paper  Gal 
legher  deigned  to  read. 

In  Gallegher  the  detective  element  was  abnor 
mally  developed.  He  had  shown  this  on  several 
occasions,  and  to  excellent  purpose. 

Once  the  paper  had  sent  him  into  a  Home  for 
Destitute  Orphans  which  was  believed  to  be  griev 
ously  mismanaged,  and  Gallegher,  while  playing 
the  part  of  a  destitute  orphan,  kept  his  eyes  open 
to  what  was  going  on  around  him  so  faithfully 
that  the  story  he  told  of  the  treatment  meted  out 
to  the  real  orphans  was  sufficient  to  rescue  the 
unhappy  little  wretches  from  the  individual  who 
had  them  in  charge,  and  to  have  the  individual 
himself  sent  to  jail. 

Gallegher's  knowledge  of  the  aliases,  terms  of 
imprisonment,  and  various  misdoings  of  the  lead 
ing  criminals  in  Philadelphia  was  almost  as  thor 
ough  as  that  of  the  chief  of  police  himself,  and 
he  could  tell  to  an  hour  when  "Dutchy  Mack" 
was  to  be  let  out  of  prison,  and  could  identify  at 

6 


A  Newspaper  Story 

a  glance  "Dick  Oxford,  confidence  man,"  as  "Gen 
tleman  Dan,  petty  thief." 

There  were,  at  this  time,  only  two  pieces  of 
news  in  any  of  the  papers.  The  least  important 
of  the  two  was  the  big  fight  between  the  Champion 
of  the  United  States  and  the  Would-be  Cham 
pion,  arranged  to  take  place  near  Philadelphia; 
the  second  was  the  Burrbank  murder,  which  was 
filling  space  in  newspapers  all  over  the  world,  from 
New  York  to  Bombay. 

Richard  F.  Burrbank  was  one  of  the  most  prom 
inent  of  New  York's  railroad  lawyers;  he  was 
also,  as  a  matter  of  course,  an  owner  of  much 
railroad  stock,  and  a  very  wealthy  man.  He  had 
been  spoken  of  as  a  political  possibility  for  many 
high  offices,  and,  as  the  counsel  for  a  great  rail 
road,  was  known  even  further  than  the  great  rail 
road  itself  had  stretched  its  system. 

At  six  o'clock  one  morning  he  was  found  by 
his  butler  lying  at  the  foot  of  the  hall  stairs  with 
two  pistol  wounds  above  his  heart.  He  was  quite 
dead.  His  safe,  to  which  only  he  and  his  secre 
tary  had  the  keys,  was  found  open,  and  $200,000 
in  bonds,  stocks,  and  money,  which  had  been  placed 
there  only  the  night  before,  was  found  missing. 
The  secretary  was  missing  also.  His  name  was 
Stephen  S.  Hade,  and  his  name  and  his  descrip 
tion  had  been  telegraphed  and  cabled  to  all  parts 

7 


Gallegher 


of  the  world.  There  was  enough  circumstantial 
evidence  to  show,  beyond  any  question  or  possibil 
ity  of  mistake,  that  he  was  the  murderer. 

It  made  an  enormous  amount  of  talk,  and  un 
happy  individuals  were  being  arrested  all  over 
the  country,  and  sent  on  to  New  York  for  iden 
tification.  Three  had  been  arrested  at  Liver 
pool,  and  one  man  just  as  he  landed  at  Syd 
ney,  Australia.  But  so  far  the  murderer  had 
escaped. 

We  were  all  talking  about  it  one  night,  as  every 
body  else  was  all  over  the  country,  in  the  local 
room,  and  the  city  editor  said  it  was  worth  a  fort 
une  to  any  one  who  chanced  to  run  across  Hade 
and  succeeded  in  handing  him  over  to  the  police. 
Some  of  us  thought  Hade  had  taken  passage  from 
some  one  of  the  smaller  seaports,  and  others  were 
of  the  opinion  that  he  had  buried  himself  in  some 
cheap  lodging-house  in  New  York,  or  in  one  of  the 
smaller  towns  in  New  Jersey. 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised  to  meet  him  out  walk 
ing,  right  here  in  Philadelphia,"  said  one  of  the 
staff.  "He'll  be  disguised,  of  course,  but  you  could 
always  tell  him  by  the  absence  of  the  trigger  finger 
on  his  right  hand.  It's  missing,  you  know;  shot 
off  when  he  was  a  boy." 

"You  want  to  look  for  a  man  dressed  like  a 
tough,"  said  the  city  editor;  "for  as  this  fellow  is 

8 


A  Newspaper  Story 

to  all  appearances  a  gentleman,  he  will  try  to  look 
as  little  like  a  gentleman  as  possible." 

"No,  he  won't,"  said  Gallegher,  with  that  calm 
impertinence  that  made  him  dear  to  us.  "He'll 
dress  just  like  a  gentleman.  Toughs  don't  wear 
gloves,  and  you  see  he's  got  to  wear  'em.  The 
first  thing  he  thought  of  after  doing  for  Burrbank 
was  of  that  gone  finger,  and  how  he  was  to  hide  it. 
He  stuffed  the  finger  of  that  glove  with  cotton 
so's  to  make  it  look  like  a  whole  finger,  and  the 
first  time  he  takes  off  that  glove  they've  got  him 
— see,  and  he  knows  it.  So  what  youse  want  to  do 
is  to  look  for  a  man  with  gloves  on.  I've  been 
a-doing  it  for  two  weeks  now,  and  I  can  tell  you 
it's  hard  work,  for  everybody  wears  gloves  this 
kind  of  weather.  But  if  you  look  long  enough 
you'll  find  him.  And  when  you  think  it's  him,  go 
up  to  him  and  hold  out  your  hand  in  a  friendly 
way,  like  a  bunco-steerer,  and  shake  his  hand;  and 
if  you  feel  that  his  forefinger  ain't  real  flesh,  but 
just  wadded  cotton,  then  grip  to  it  with  your  right 
and  grab  his  throat  with  your  left,  and  holler  for 
help." 

There  was  an  appreciative  pause. 

"I  see,  gentlemen,"  said  the  city  editor,  dryly, 
"that  Gallegher's  reasoning  has  impressed  you; 
and  I  also  see  that  before  the  week  is  out  all  of 
my  young  men  will  be  under  bonds  for  assaulting 

9 


Gallegh 


er 


innocent  pedestrians  whose  only  offence  is  that  they 
wear  gloves  in  midwinter." 


It  was  about  a  week  after  this  that  Detective 
Hefflefinger,  of  Inspector  Byrnes's  staff,  came  over 
to  Philadelphia  after  a  burglar,  of  whose  where 
abouts  he  had  been  misinformed  by  telegraph.  He 
brought  the  warrant,  requisition,  and  other  neces 
sary  papers  with  him,  but  the  burglar  had  flown. 
One  of  our  reporters  had  worked  on  a  New  York 
paper,  and  knew  Hefflefinger,  and  the  detective 
came  to  the  office  to  see  if  he  could  help  him  in 
his  so  far  unsuccessful  search. 

He  gave  Gallegher  his  card,  and  after  Galle- 
gher  had  read  it,  and  had  discovered  who  the 
visitor,  was,  he  became  so  demoralized  that  he 
was  absolutely  useless. 

"One  of  Byrnes's  men"  was  a  much  more  awe- 
inspiring  individual  to  Gallegher  than  a  member 
of  the  Cabinet.  He  accordingly  seized  his  hat 
and  overcoat,  and  leaving  his  duties  to  be  looked 
after  by  others,  hastened  out  after  the  object  of 
his  admiration,  who  found  his  suggestions  and 
knowledge  of  the  city  so  valuable,  and  his  com 
pany  so  entertaining,  that  they  became  very  inti 
mate,  and  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  together. 

In  the  meanwhile  the  managing  editor  had  in- 
10 


A  Newspaper  Story 

structed  his  subordinates  to  inform  Gallegher, 
when  he  condescended  to  return,  that  his  services 
were  no  longer  needed.  Gallegher  had  played 
truant  once  too  often.  Unconscious  of  this,  he 
remained  with  his  new  friend  until  late  the  same 
evening,  and  started  the  next  afternoon  toward 
the  Press  office. 

As  I  have  said,  Gallegher  lived  in  the  most 
distant  part  of  the  city,  not  many  minutes'  walk 
from  the  Kensington  railroad  station,  where  trains 
ran  into  the  suburbs  and  on  to  New  York. 

It  was  in  front  of  this  station  that  a  smoothly 
shaven,  well-dressed  man  brushed  past  Gallegher 
and  hurried  up  the  steps  to  the  ticket  office. 

He  held  a  walking-stick  in  his  right  hand,  and 
Gallegher,  who  now  patiently  scrutinized  the  hands 
of  every  one  who  wore  gloves,  saw  that  while 
three  fingers  of  the  man's  hand  were  closed  around 
the  cane,  the  fourth  stood  out  in  almost  a  straight 
line  with  his  palm. 

Gallegher  stopped  with  a  gasp  and  with  a  trem 
bling  all  over  his  little  body,  and  his  brain  asked 
with  a  throb  if  it  could  be  possible.  But  possibil 
ities  and  probabilities  were  to  be  discovered  later. 
Now  was  the  time  for  action. 

He  was  after  the  man  in  a  moment,  hanging 
at  his  heels  and  his  eyes  moist  with  excitement 

ii 


Gallegher 


He  heard  the  man  ask  for  a  ticket  to  Torres- 
dale,  a  little  station  just  outside  of  Philadelphia, 
and  when  he  was  out  of  hearing,  but  not  out  of 
sight,  purchased  one  for  the  same  place. 

The  stranger  went  into  the  smoking-car,  and 
seated  himself  at  one  end  toward  the  door.  Gal 
legher  took  his  place  at  the  opposite  end. 

He  was  trembling  all  over,  and  suffered  from 
a  slight  feeling  of  nausea.  He  guessed  it  came 
from  fright,  not  of  any  bodily  harm  that  might 
come  to  him,  but  at  the  probability  of  failure  in 
his  adventure  and  of  its  most  momentous  possi 
bilities. 

The  stranger  pulled  his  coat  collar  up  around 
his  ears,  hiding  the  lower  portion  of  his  face,  but 
not  concealing  the  resemblance  in  his  troubled  eyes 
and  close-shut  lips  to  the  likenesses  of  the  mur 
derer  Hade. 

They  reached  Torresdale  in  half  an  hour,  and 
the  stranger,  alighting  quickly,  struck  off  at  a  rapid 
pace  down  the  country  road  leading  to  the  sta 
tion. 

Gallegher  gave  him  a  hundred  yards'  start,  and 
then  followed  slowly  after.  The  road  ran  between 
fields  and  past  a  few  frame-houses  set  far  from 
the  road  in  kitchen  gardens. 

Once  or  twice  the  man  looked  back  over  his 
shoulder,  but  he  saw  only  a  dreary  length  of  road 

12 


A  Newspaper  Story 

with  a  small  boy  splashing  through  the  slush  in 
the  midst  of  it  and  stopping  every  now  and  again 
to  throw  snowballs  at  belated  sparrows. 

After  a  ten  minutes'  walk  the  stranger  turned 
into  a  side  road  which  led  to  only  one  place,  the 
Eagle  Inn,  an  old  roadside  hostelry  known  now 
as  the  headquarters  for  pothunters  from  the  Phil 
adelphia  game  market  and  the  battle-ground  of 
many  a  cock-fight. 

Gallegher  knew  the  place  well.  He  and  his 
young  companions  had  often  stopped  there  when 
out  chestnutting  on  holidays  in  the  autumn. 

The  son  of  the  man  who  kept  it  had  often  ac 
companied  them  on  their  excursions,  and  though 
the  boys  of  the  city  streets  considered  him  a  dumb 
lout,  they  respected  him  somewhat  owing  to  his 
inside  knowledge  of  dog-  and  cock-fights. 

The  stranger  entered  the  inn  at  a  side  door,  and 
Gallegher,  reaching  it  a  few  minutes  later,  let  him 
go  for  the  time  being,  and  set  about  finding  his 
occasional  playmate,  young  Keppler. 

Keppler's  offspring  was  found  in  the  wood-shed. 
'Tain't  hard  to  guess  what  brings  you  out 
here,"  said  the  tavern-keeper's  son,  with  a  grin; 
"it's  the  fight." 

"What  fight?"  asked  Gallegher,  unguardedly. 

"What  fight?  Why,  the  fight,"  returned  his 
companion,  with  the  slow  contempt  of  superior 

13 


knowledge.  "It's  to  come  off  here  to-night.  You 
knew  that  as  well  as  me;  anyway  your  sportin' 
editor  knows  it.  He  got  the  tip  last  night,  but 
that  won't  help  you  any.  You  needn't  think 
there's  any  chance  of  your  getting  a  peep  at  it. 
Why,  tickets  is  two  hundred  and  fifty  apiece !" 

"Whew!"  whistled  Gallegher,  "where's  it  to 
be?" 

"In  the  barn,"  whispered  Keppler.  "I  helped 
'em  fix  the  ropes  this  morning,  I  did." 

"Gosh,  but  you're  in  luck,"  exclaimed  Galle 
gher,  with  flattering  envy.  "Couldn't  I  jest  get 
a  peep  at  it?" 

"Maybe,"  said  the  gratified  Keppler.  "There's 
a  winder  with  a  wooden  shutter  at  the  back  of 
the  barn.  You  can  get  in  by  it,  if  you  have  some 
one  to  boost  you  up  to  the  sill." 

"Sa-a-y,"  drawled  Gallegher,  as  if  something 
had  but  just  that  moment  reminded  him.  "Who's 
that  gent  who  come  down  the  road  just  a  bit  ahead 
of  me — him  with  the  cape-coat!  Has  he  got  any 
thing  to  do  with  the  fight?" 

"Him?"  repeated  Keppler  in  tones  of  sincere 
disgust.  "No-oh,  he  ain't  no  sport.  He's  queer, 
Dad  thinks.  He  come  here  one  day  last  week 
about  ten  in  the  morning,  said  his  doctor  told  him 
to  go  out  'en  the  country  for  his  health.  He's 
stuck  up  and  citified,  and  wears  gloves,  and  takes 


A  Newspaper  Story 

his  meals  private  in  his  room,  and  all  that  sort  of 
ruck.  They  was  saying  in  the  saloon  last  night 
that  they  thought  he  was  hiding  from  something, 
and  Dad,  just  to  try  him,  asks  him  last  night  if 
he  was  coming  to  see  the  fight.  He  looked  sort 
of  scared,  and  said  he  didn't  want  to  see  no  fight. 
And  then  Dad  says,  'I  guess  you  mean  you  don't 
want  no  fighters  to  see  you.'  Dad  didn't  mean 
no  harm  by  it,  just  passed  it  as  a  joke;  but  Mr. 
Carleton,  as  he  calls  himself,  got  white  as  a  ghost 
an'  says,  Til  go  to  the  fight  willing  enough,'  and 
begins  to  laugh  and  joke.  And  this  morning  he 
went  right  into  the  bar-room,  where  all  the  sports 
were  setting,  and  said  he  was  going  into  town  to 
see  some  friends;  and  as  he  starts  off  he  laughs  an' 
says,  'This  don't  look  as  if  I  was  afraid  of  seeing 
people,  does  it?'  but  Dad  says  it  was  just  bluff 
that  made  him  do  it,  and  Dad  thinks  that  if  he 
hadn't  said  what  he  did,  this  Mr.  Carleton 
wouldn't  have  left  his  room  at  all." 

Gallegher  had  got  all  he  wanted,  and  much 
more  than  he  had  hoped  for — so  much  more  that 
his  walk  back  to  the  station  was  in  the  nature  of 
a  triumphal  march. 

He  had  twenty  minutes  to  wait  for  the  next 
train,  and  it  seemed  an  hour.  While  waiting  he 
sent  a  telegram  to  HefHefinger  at  his  hotel.  It 
read :  "Your  man  is  near  the  Torresdale  station, 

15 


Gallegher 

on  Pennsylvania  Railroad;  take  cab,  and  meet  me 
at  station.     Wait  until  I  come.     GALLEGHER." 

With  the  exception  of  one  at  midnight,  no  other 
train  stopped  at  Torresdale  that  evening,  hence 
the  direction  to  take  a  cab. 

The  train  to  the  city  seemed  to  Gallegher  to 
drag  itself  by  inches.  It  stopped  and  backed  at 
purposeless  intervals,  waited  for  an  express  to  pre 
cede  it,  and  dallied  at  stations,  and  when,  at  last, 
it  reached  the  terminus,  Gallegher  was  out  before 
it  had  stopped  and  was  in  the  cab  and  off  on  his 
way  to  the  home  of  the  sporting  editor. 

The  sporting  editor  was  at  dinner  and  came  out 
In  the  hall  to  see  him,  with  his  napkin  in  his  hand. 
Gallegher  explained  breathlessly  that  he  had  lo 
cated  the  murderer  for  whom  the  police  of  two 
continents  were  looking,  and  that  he  believed,  in 
order  to  quiet  the  suspicions  of  the  people  with 
whom  he  was  hiding,  that  he  would  be  present  at 
the  fight  that  night. 

The  sporting  editor  led  Gallegher  into  his  li 
brary  and  shut  the  door.  "Now,"  he  said,  "go 
over  all  that  again." 

Gallegher  went  over  it  again  in  detail,  and  added 
how  he  had  sent  for  Hefflefinger  to  make  the  ar 
rest  in  order  that  it  might  be  kept  from  the  knowl 
edge  of  the  local  police  and  from  the  Philadelphia 
reporters. 

16 


"What  I  want  Hefflefinger  to  do  is  to  arrest 
Hade  with  the  warrant  he  has  for  the  burglar," 
explained  Gallegher;  "and  to  take  him  on  to  New 
York  on  the  owl  train  that  passes  Torresdale  at 
one.  It  don't  get  to  Jersey  City  until  four  o'clock, 
one  hour  after  the  morning  papers  go  to  press. 
Of  course,  we  must  fix  Hefflefinger  so's  he'll  keep 
quiet  and  not  tell  who  his  prisoner  really  is." 

The  sporting  editor  reached  his  hand  out  to 
pat  Gallegher  on  the  head,  but  changed  his  mind 
and  shook  hands  with  him  instead. 

"My  boy,"  he  said,  "you  are  an  infant  phe 
nomenon.  If  I  can  pull  the  rest  of  this  thing  off 
to-night  it  will  mean  the  $5,000  reward  and  fame 
galore  for  you  and  the  paper.  Now,  I'm  going 
to  write  a  note  to  the  managing  editor,  and  you 
can  take  it  around  to  him  and  tell  him  what  you've 
done  and  what  I  am  going  to  do,  and  he'll  take 
you  back  on  the  paper  and  raise  your  salary.  Per 
haps  you  didn't  know  you've  been  discharged?" 

"Do  you  think  you  ain't  a-going  to  take  me 
with  you?"  demanded  Gallegher. 

"Why,  certainly  not.  Why  should  I?  It  all 
lies  with  the  detective  and  myself  now.  You've 
done  your  share,  and  done  it  well.  If  the  man's 
caught,  the  reward's  yours.  But  you'd  only  be 
in  the  way  now.  You'd  better  go  to  the  office  and 
make  your  peace  with  the  chief." 

"If  the  paper  can  gel  along  without  me,  I  can 
12 


Gallegher 

get  along  without  the  old  paper,"  said  Gallegher, 
hotly.  "And  if  I  ain't  a-going  with  you,  you 
ain't  neither,  for  I  know  where  Hefflefinger  is  to 
be,  and  you  don't,  and  I  won't  tell  you." 

"Oh,  very  well,  very  well,"  replied  the  sporting 
editor,  weakly  capitulating.  "I'll  send  the  note 
by  a  messenger;  only  mind,  if  you  lose  your  place, 
don't  blame  me." 

Gallegher  wondered  how  this  man  could  value 
a  week's  salary  against  the  excitement  of  seeing 
a  noted  criminal  run  down,  and  of  getting  the  news 
to  the  paper,  and  to  that  one  paper  alone. 

From  that  moment  the  sporting  editor  sank  in 
Gallegher's  estimation. 

Mr.  Dwyer  sat  down  at  his  desk  and  scribbled 
off  the  following  note: 

"I  have  received  reliable  information  that  Hade, 
the  Burrbank  murderer,  will  be  present  at  the 
fight  to-night.  We  have  arranged  it  so  that  he 
will  be  arrested  quietly  and  in  such  a  manner  that 
the  fact  may  be  kept  from  all  other  papers.  I 
need  not  point  out  to  you  that  this  will  be  the 
most  important  piece  of  news  in  the  country  to 
morrow. 

"Yours,  etc.,  MICHAEL  E.  DWYER." 

The  sporting  editor  stepped  into  the  waiting 
cab,  while  Gallegher  whispered  the  directions  to 

18 


A  Newspaper  Story 

the  driver.  He  was  told  to  go  first  to  a  district- 
messenger  office,  and  from  there  up  to  the  Ridge 
Avenue  Road,  out  Broad  Street,  and  on  to  the 
old  Eagle  Inn,  near  Torresdale. 

It  was  a  miserable  night.  The  rain  and  snow 
were  falling  together,  and  freezing  as  they  fell. 
The  sporting  editor  got  out  to  send  his  message 
to  the  Press  office,  and  then  lighting  a  cigar,  and 
turning  up  the  collar  of  his  great-coat,  curled  up 
in  the  corner  of  the  cab. 

"Wake  me  when  we  get  there,  Gallegher,"  he 
said.  He  knew  he  had  a  long  ride,  and  much 
rapid  work  before  him,  and  he  was  preparing  for 
the  strain. 

To  Gallegher  the  Idea  of  going  to  sleep  seemed 
almost  criminal.  From  the  dark  corner  of  the  cab 
his  eyes  shone  with  excitement,  and  with  the  awful 
joy  of  anticipation.  He  glanced  every  now  and 
then  to  where  the  sporting  editor's  cigar  shone  in 
the  darkness,  and  watched  it  as  it  gradually  burnt 
more  dimly  and  went  out.  The  lights  in  the  shop 
windows  threw  a  broad  glare  across  the  ice  on  the 
pavements,  and  the  lights  from  the  lamp-posts 
tossed  the  distorted  shadow  of  the  cab,  and  the 
horse,  and  the  motionless  driver,  sometimes  before 
and  sometimes  behind  them. 

After  half  an  hour  Gallegher  slipped  down  to 
19 


Gallegher 


the  bottom  of  the  cab  and  dragged  out  a  lap-robe, 
in  which  he  wrapped  himself.  It  was  growing 
colder,  and  the  damp,  keen  wind  swept  in  through 
the  cracks  until  the  window-frames  and  woodwork 
were  cold  to  the  touch. 

An  hour  passed,  and  the  cab  was  still  moving 
more  slowly  over  the  rough  surface  of  partly  paved 
streets,  and  by  single  rows  of  new  houses  standing 
at  different  angles  to  each  other  in  fields  covered 
with  ash-heaps  and  brick-kilns.  Here  and  there 
the  gaudy  lights  of  a  drug-store,  and  the  forerun 
ner  of  suburban  civilization,  shone  from  the  end 
of  a  new  block  of  houses,  and  the  rubber  cape  of 
an  occasional  policeman  showed  in  the  light  of 
the  lamp-post  that  he  hugged  for  comfort. 

Then  even  the  houses  disappeared,  and  the  cab 
dragged  its  way  between  truck  farms,  with  deso 
late-looking  glass-covered  beds,  and  pools  of  wa 
ter,  half-caked  with  ice,  and  bare  trees,  and  in 
terminable  fences. 

Once  or  twice  the  cab  stopped  altogether,  and 
Gallegher  could  hear  the  driver  swearing  to  him 
self,  or  at  the  horse,  or  the  roads.  At  last  they 
drew  up  before  the  station  at  Torresdale.  It  was 
quite  deserted,  and  only  a  single  light  cut  a  swath 
in  the  darkness  and  showed  a  portion  of  the  plat 
form,  the  ties,  and  the  rails  glistening  in  the  rain. 
They  walked  twice  past  the  light  before  a  figure 

20 


A   Newspaper  Story- 
stepped  out  of  the  shadow  and  greeted  them  cau 
tiously. 

"I  am  Mr.  Dwyer,  of  the  Press"  said  the  sport 
ing  editor,  briskly.  "You've  heard  of  me,  per 
haps.  Well,  there  shouldn't  be  any  difficulty  in 
our  making  a  deal,  should  there?  This  boy  here 
has  found  Hade,  and  we  have  reason  to  believe 
he  will  be  among  the  spectators  at  the  fight  to 
night.  We  want  you  to  arrest  him  quietly,  and 
as  secretly  as  possible.  You  can  do  it  with  your 
papers  and  your  badge  easily  enough.  We  want 
you  to  pretend  that  you  believe  he  is  this  burglar 
you  came  over  after.  If  you  will  do  this,  and  take 
him  away  without  any  one  so  much  as  suspecting 
who  he  really  is,  and  on  the  train  that  passes  here 
at  i. 20  for  New  York,  we  will  give  you  $500 
out  of  the  $5,000  reward.  If,  however,  one  other 
paper,  either  in  New  York  or  Philadelphia,  or 
anywhere  else,  knows  of  the  arrest,  you  won't  get 
a  cent.  Now,  what  do  you  say?" 

The  detective  had  a  great  deal  to  say.  He 
wasn't  at  all  sure  the  man  Gallegher  suspected 
was  Hade;  he  feared  he  might  get  himself  into 
trouble  by  making  a  false  arrest,  and  if  it  should 
be  the  man,  he  was  afraid  the  local  police  would 
interfere. 

"We've  no  time  to  argue  or  debate  this  matter," 
said  Dwyer,  warmly.  "We  agree  to  point  Hade 

21 


Gallegher 


out  to  you  in  the  crowd.  After  the  fight  is  over 
you  arrest  him  as  we  have  directed,  and  you  get 
the  money  and  the  credit  of  the  arrest.  If  you 
don't  like  this,  I  will  arrest  the  man  myself,  and 
have  him  driven  to  town,  with  a  pistol  for  a  war 
rant." 

Hefflefinger  considered  in  silence  and  then 
agreed  unconditionally.  "As  you  say,  Mr. 
Dwyer,"  he  returned.  "I've  heard  of  you  for  a 
thoroughbred  sport.  I  know  you'll  do  what  you 
say  you'll  do;  and  as  for  me  I'll  do  what  you 
say  and  just  as  you  say,  and  it's  a  very  pretty 
piece  of  work  as  it  stands." 

They  all  stepped  back  into  the  cab,  and  then 
it  was  that  they  were  met  by  a  fresh  difficulty,  how 
to  get  the  detective  into  the  barn  where  the  fight 
was  to  take  place,  for  neither  of  the  two  men 
had  $250  to  pay  for  his  admittance. 

But  this  was  overcome  when  Gallegher  remem 
bered  the  window  of  which  young  Keppler  had 
told  him. 

In  the  event  of  Hade's  losing  courage  and  not 
daring  to  show  himself  in  the  crowd  around  the 
ring,  it  was  agreed  that  Dwyer  should  come  to 
the  barn  and  warn  Hefflefinger;  but  if  he  should 
come,  Dwyer  was  merely  to  keep  nc?.r  him  and 
to  signify  by  a  prearranged  gesture  which  one  of 
the  crowd  he  was. 

22 


A  Newspaper  Story 

They  drew  up  before  a  great  black  shadow  of 
a  house,  dark,  forbidding,  and  apparently  de 
serted.  But  at  the  sound  of  the  wheels  on  the 
gravel  the  door  opened,  letting  out  a  stream  of 
warm,  cheerful  light,  and  a  man's  voice  said,  "Put 
out  those  lights.  Don't  youse  know  no  better 
than  that?"  This  was  Keppler,  and  he  welcomed 
Mr.  Dwyer  with  effusive  courtesy. 

The  two  men  showed  in  the  stream  of  light, 
and  the  door  closed  on  them,  leaving  the  house 
as  it  was  at  first,  black  and  silent,  •  save  for  the 
dripping  of  the  rain  and  snow  from  the  eaves. 

The  detective  and  Gallegher  put  out  the  cab's 
lamps  and  led  the  horse  toward  a  long,  low  shed 
in  the  rear  of  the  yard,  which  they  now  noticed 
was  almost  filled  with  teams  of  many  differ 
ent  makes,  from  the  Hobson's  choice  of  a  liv 
ery  stable  to  the  brougham  of  the  man  about 
town. 

"No,"  said  Gallegher,  as  the  cabman  stopped 
to  hitch  the  horse  beside  the  others,  "we  want  it 
nearest  that  lower  gate.  When  we  newspaper  men 
leave  this  place  we'll  leave  it  in  a  hurry,  and  the 
man  who  is  nearest  town  is  likely  to  get  there  first. 
You  won't  be  a-following  of  no  hearse  when  you 
make  your  return  trip." 

Gallegher  tied  the  horse  to  the  very  gate-post 
itself,  leaving  the  gate  open  and  allowing  a  clear 

23 


Gallegher 

road  and  a  flying  start  for  the  prospective  race  to 
Newspaper  Row. 

The  driver  disappeared  under  the  shelter  of  the 
porch,  and  Gallegher  and  the  detective  moved  off 
cautiously  to  the  rear  of  the  barn.  "This  must 
be  the  window,"  said  Hefflefinger,  pointing  to  a 
broad  wooden  shutter  some  feet  from  the  ground. 

"Just  you  give  me  a  boost  once,  and  I'll  get  that 
open  in  a  jiffy,"  said  Gallegher. 

The  detective  placed  his  hands  on  his  knees, 
and  Gallegher  stood  upon  his  shoulders,  and  with 
the  blade  of  his  knife  lifted  the  wooden  button 
that  fastened  the  window  on  the  inside,  and  pulled 
the  shutter  open. 

Then  he  put  one  leg  inside  over  the  sill,  and 
leaning  down  helped  to  draw  his  fellow-conspira 
tor  up  to  a  level  with  the  window.  "I  feel  just 
like  I  was  burglarizing  a  house,"  chuckled  Galle 
gher,  as  he  dropped  noiselessly  to  the  floor  below 
and  refastened  the  shutter.  The  barn  was  a  large 
one,  with  a  row  of  stalls  on  either  side  in  which 
horses  and  cows  were  dozing.  There  was  a  hay 
mow  over  each  row  of  stalls,  and  at  one  end  of 
the  barn  a  number  of  fence-rails  had  been  thrown 
across  from  one  mow  to  the  other.  These  rails 
were  covered  with  hay. 

In  the  middle  of  the  floor  was  the  ring.  It  was 
not  really  a  ring,  but  a  square,  with  wooden  posts 

24 


Gallegher  stood  upon  his   shoulders. 


A   Newspaper  Story 

at  its  four  corners  through  which  ran  a  heavy 
rope.  The  space  inclosed  by  the  rope  was  covered 
with  sawdust. 

Gallegher  could  not  resist  stepping  into  the  ring, 
and  after  stamping  the  sawdust  once  or  twice,  as 
if  to  assure  himself  that  he  was  really  there,  be 
gan  dancing  around  it,  and  indulging  in  such  a 
remarkable  series  of  fistic  manoeuvres  with  an  im 
aginary  adversary  that  the  unimaginative  detective 
precipitately  backed  into  a  corner  of  the  barn. 

"Now,  then,"  said  Gallegher,  having  apparent 
ly  vanquished  his  foe,  "you  come  with  me."  His 
companion  followed  quickly  as  Gallegher  climbed 
to  one  of  the  hay-mows,  and  crawling  carefully 
out  on  the  fence-rail,  stretched  himself  at  full 
length,  face  downward.  In  this  position,  by  mov 
ing  the  straw  a  little,  he  could  look  down,  without 
being  himself  seen,  upon  the  heads  of  whomsoever 
stood  below.  "This  is  better'n  a  private  box,  ain't 
it?"  said  Gallegher. 

The  boy  from  the  newspaper  office  and  the  de 
tective  lay  there  in  silence,  biting  at  straws  and 
tossing  anxiously  on  their  comfortable  bed. 

It  seemed  fully  two  hours  before  they  came. 
Gallegher  had  listened  without  breathing,  and 
with  every  muscle  on  a  strain,  at  least  a  dozen 
times,  when  some  movement  in  the  yard  had  led 
him  to  believe  that  they  were  at  the  door. 

25 


Gallegher 

And  he  had  numerous  doubts  and  fears.  Some 
times  it  was  that  the  police  had  learnt  of  the  fight, 
and  had  raided  Keppler's  in  his  absence,  and  again 
it  was  that  the  fight  had  been  postponed,  or,  worst 
of  all,  that  it  would  be  put  off  until  so  late  that 
Mr.  Dwyer  could  not  get  back  in  time  for  the 
last  edition  of  the  paper.  Their  coming,  when 
at  last  they  came,  was  heralded  by  an  advance- 
guard  of  two  sporting  men,  who  stationed  them 
selves  at  either  side  of  the  big  door. 

"Hurry  up,  now,  gents,"  one  of  the  men  said 
with  a  shiver,  "don't  keep  this  door  open  no  lon- 
ger'n  is  needful." 

It  was  not  a  very  large  crowd,  but  it  was  won 
derfully  well  selected.  It  ran,  in  the  majority  of 
its  component  parts,  to  heavy  white  coats  with 
pearl  buttons.  The  white  coats  were  shouldered 
by  long  blue  coats  with  astrakhan  fur  trimmings, 
the  wearers  of  which  preserved  a  cliqueness  not 
remarkable  when  one  considers  that  they  believed 
every  one  else  present  to  be  either  a  crook  or  a 
prize-fighter. 

There  were  well-fed,  well-groomed  club-men 
and  brokers  in  the  crowd,  a  politician  or  two, 
a  popular  comedian  with  his  manager,  amateur 
boxers  from  the  athletic  clubs,  and  quiet,  close- 
mouthed  sporting  men  from  every  city  in  the 
country.  Their  names  if  printed  in  the  papers 

26 


A  Newspaper  Story 

would  have  been  as  familiar  as  the  types  of  the 
papers  themselves. 

And  among  these  men,  whose  only  thought  was 
of  the  brutal  sport  to  come,  was  Hade,  with  Dwyer 
standing  at  ease  at  his  shoulder, — Hade,  white, 
and  visibly  in  deep  anxiety,  hiding  his  pale  face 
beneath  a  cloth  travelling-cap,  and  with  his  chin 
muffled  in  a  woollen  scarf.  He  had  dared  to  come 
because  he  feared  his  danger  from  the  already  sus 
picious  Keppler  was  less  than  if  he  stayed  away. 
And  so  he  was  there,  hovering  restlessly  on  the 
border  of  the  crowd,  feeling  his  danger  and  sick 
with  fear. 

When  Hefflefinger  first  saw  him  he  started  up 
on  his  hands  and  elbows  and  made  a  movement 
forward  as  if  he  would  leap  down  then  and  there 
and  carry  off  his  prisoner  single-handed. 

"Lie  down,"  growled  Gallegher;  "an  officer  of 
any  sort  wouldn't  live  three  minutes  in  that 
crowd." 

The  detective  drew  back  slowly  and  buried  him 
self  again  in  the  straw,  but  never  once  through  the 
long  fight  which  followed  did  his  eyes  leave  the 
person  of  the  murderer.  The  newspaper  men  took 
their  places  in  the  foremost  row  close  around  the 
ring,  and  kept  looking  at  their  watches  and  beg 
ging  the  master  of  ceremonies  to  "shake  it  up, 
do." 

27 


Gallegher 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  betting,  and  all  of 
the  men  handled  the  great  roll  of  bills  they  wa 
gered  with  a  flippant  recklessness  which  could 
only  be  accounted  for  in  Gallegher's  mind  by  tem 
porary  mental  derangement.  Some  one  pulled  a 
box  out  into  the  ring  and  the  master  of  ceremonies 
mounted  it,  and  pointed  out  in  forcible  language 
that  as  they  were  almost  all  already  under  bonds 
to  keep  the  peace,  it  behooved  all  to  curb  their 
excitement  and  to  maintain  a  severe  silence,  unless 
they  wanted  to  bring  the  police  upon  them  and 
have  themselves  "sent  down"  for  a  year  or  two. 

Then  two  very  disreputable-looking  persons 
tossed  their  respective  principals'  high  hats  into 
the  ring,  and  the  crowd,  recognizing  in  this  relic 
of  the  days  when  brave  knights  threw  down  their 
gauntlets  in  the  lists  as  only  a  sign  that  the  fight 
was  about  to  begin,  cheered  tumultuously. 

This  was  followed  by  a  sudden  surging  for 
ward,  and  a  mutter  of  admiration  much  more  flat 
tering  than  the  cheers  had  been,  when  the  princi 
pals  followed  their  hats,  and  slipping  out  of  their 
great-coats,  stood  forth  in  all  the  physical  beauty 
of  the  perfect  brute. 

Their  pink  skin  was  as  soft  and  healthy  look 
ing  as  a  baby's,  and  glowed  in  the  lights  of  the 
lanterns  like  tinted  ivory,  and  underneath  this  silk 
en  covering  the  great  biceps  and  muscles  moved 

28 


A  Newspaper  Story 

in  and  out  and  looked  like  the  coils  of  a  snake 
around  the  branch  of  a  tree. 

Gentleman  and  blackguard  shouldered  each 
other  for  a  nearer  view;  the  coachmen,  whose 
metal  buttons  were  unpleasantly  suggestive  of  po 
lice,  put  their  hands,  in  the  excitement  of  the  mo 
ment,  on  the  shoulders  of  their  masters;  the  per 
spiration  stood  out  in  great  drops  on  the  foreheads 
of  the  backers,  and  the  newspaper  men  bit  some 
what  nervously  at  the  ends  of  their  pencils. 

And  in  the  stalls  the  cows  munched  contentedly 
at  their  cuds  and  gazed  with  gentle  curiosity  at 
their  two  fellow-brutes,  who  stood  waiting  the  sig 
nal  to  fall  upon,  and  kill  each  other  if  need  be, 
for  the  delectation  of  their  brothers. 

"Take  your  places,"  commanded  the  master  of 
ceremonies. 

In  the  moment  in  which  the  two  men  faced  each 
other  the  crowd  became  so  still  that,  save  for  the 
beating  of  the  rain  upon  the  shingled  roof  and 
the  stamping  of  a  horse  in  one  of  the  stalls,  the 
place  was  as  silent  as  a  church. 

"Time,"  shouted  the  master  of  ceremonies. 

The  two  men  sprang  into  a  posture  of  defence, 
which  was  lost  as  quickly  as  it  was  taken,  one  great 
arm  shot  out  like  a  piston-rod ;  there  was  the  sound 
of  bare  fists  beating  on  naked  flesh;  there  was  an 
exultant  indrawn  gasp  of  savage  pleasure  and  re- 

29 


Gallegher 

lief  from  the  crowd,  and  the  great  fight  had  be 
gun. 

How  the  fortunes  of  war  rose  and  fell,  and 
changed  and  rechanged  that  night,  is  an  old  story 
to  those  who  listen  to  such  stories;  and  those  who 
do  not  will  be  glad  to  be  spared  the  telling  of  it. 
It  was,  they  say,  one  of  the  bitterest  fights  be 
tween  two  men  that  this  country  has  ever  known. 

But  all  that  is  of  interest  here  is  that  after  an 
hour  of  this  desperate  brutal  business  the  cham 
pion  ceased  to  be  the  favorite;  the  man  whom  he 
had  taunted  and  bullied,  and  for  whom  the  public 
had  but  little  sympathy,  was  proving  himself  a 
likely  winner,  and  under  his  cruel  blows,  as  sharp 
and  clean  as  those  from  a  cutlass,  his  opponent 
was  rapidly  giving  way. 

The  men  about  the  ropes  were  past  all  control 
now;  they  drowned  Keppler's  petitions  for  silence 
with  oaths  and  in  inarticulate  shouts  of  anger,  as 
if  the  blows  had  fallen  upon  them,  and  in  mad 
rejoicings.  They  swept  from  one  end  of  the  ring 
to  the  other,  with  every  muscle  leaping  in  unison 
with  those  of  the  man  they  favored,  and  when  a 
New  York  correspondent  muttered  over  his  shoul 
der  that  this  would  be  the  biggest  sporting  sur 
prise  since  the  Heenan-Sayers  fight,  Mr.  Dwyer 
nodded  his  head  svmpathetically  in  assent. 

In  the  excitement  and  tumult  it  is  doubtful  if 
30 


A  Newspaper  Story 

any  heard  the  three  quickly  repeated  blows  that 
fell  heavily  from  the  outside  upon  the  big  doors 
of  the  barn.  If  they  did,  it  was  already  too  late 
to  mend  matters,  for  the  door  fell,  torn  from  its 
hinges,  and  as  it  fell  a  captain  of  police  sprang 
into  the  light  from  out  of  the  storm,  with  his 
lieutenants  and  their  men  crowding  close  at  his 
shoulder. 

In  the  panic  and  stampede  that  followed,  sev 
eral  of  the  men  stood  as  helplessly  immovable  as 
though  they  had  seen  a  ghost;  others  made  a  mad 
rush  into  the  arms  of  the  officers  and  were  beaten 
back  against  the  ropes  of  the  ring;  others  dived 
headlong  into  the  stalls,  among  the  horses  and  cat 
tle,  and  still  others  shoved  the  rolls  of  money  they 
held  into  the  hands  of  the  police  and  begged  like 
children  to  be  allowed  to  escape. 

The  instant  the  door  fell  and  the  raid  was  de 
clared  Hefflefmger  slipped  over  the  cross  rails  on 
which  he  had  been  lying,  hung  for  an  instant  by 
bis  hands,  and  then  dropped  into  the  centre  of  the 
fighting  mob  on  the  floor.  He  was  out  of  it  in  an 
instant  with  the  agility  of  a  pickpocket,  was  acros'- 
the  room  and  at  Hade's  throat  like  a  dog.  The 
murderer,  for  the  moment,  was  the  calmer  man 
of  the  two. 

"Here,"  he  panted,  "hands  off,  now.  There's 
no  need  for  all  this  violence.  There's  no  great 

3* 


Gallegher 

harm  in  looking  at  a  fight,  is  there?  There's  a 
hundred-dollar  bill  in  my  right  hand;  take  it  and 
let  me  slip  out  of  this.  No  one  is  looking.  Here." 
But  the  detective  only  held  him  the  closer. 
"I  want  you  for  burglary,"  he  whispered  under 
his  breath.  "You've  got  to  come  with  me  now, 
and  quick.  The  less  fuss  you  make,  the  better  for 
both  of  us.  If  you  don't  know  who  I  am,  you  can 
feel  my  badge  under  my  coat  there.  I've  got  the 
authority.  It's  all  regular,  and  when  we're  out  of 
this  d — d  row  I'll  show  you  the  papers." 

He  took  one  hand  from  Hade's  throat  and 
pulled  a  pair  of  handcuffs  from  his  pocket. 

"It's  a  mistake.  This  is  an  outrage,"  gasped 
the  murderer,  white  and  trembling,  but  dreadfully 
alive  and  desperate  for  his  liberty.  "Let  me  go, 
I  tell  you!  Take  your  hands  off  of  me!  Do  I 
look  like  a  burglar,  you  fool?" 

"I  know  who  you  look  like,"  whispered  the  de 
tective,  with  his  face  close  to  the  face  of  his  pris 
oner.  "Now,  will  you  go  easy  as  a  burglar,  or 
shall  I  tell  these  men  who  you  are  and  what  I  do 
want  you  for?  Shall  I  call  out  your  real  name 
or  not?  Shall  I  tell  them?  Quick,  speak  up; 
shall  I?" 

There  was  something  so  exultant — something 
so  unnecessarily  savage  in  the  officer's  face  that 
the  man  he  held  saw  that  the  detective  knew  him 

32 


A  Newspaper  Story 

for  what  he  really  was,  and  the  hands  that  had 
held  his  throat  slipped  down  around  his  shoulders, 
or  he  would  have  fallen.  The  man's  eyes  opened 
and  closed  again,  and  he  swayed  weakly  backward 
and  forward,  and  choked  as  if  his  throat  were 
dry  and  burning.  Even  to  such  a  hardened  con 
noisseur  in  crime  as  Gallegher,  who  stood  closely 
by,  drinking  it  in,  there  was  something  so  abject 
in  the  man's  terror  that  he  regarded  him  with 
what  was  almost  a  touch  of  pity. 

"For  God's  sake,"  Hade  begged,  "let  me  go. 
Come  with  me  to  my  room  and  I'll  give  you  half 
the  money.  I'll  divide  with  you  fairly.  We  can 
both  get  away.  There's  a  fortune  for  both  of  us 
there.  We  both  can  get  away.  You'll  be  rich 
for  life.  Do  you  understand — for  life!" 

But  the  detective,  to  his  credit,  only  shut  his 
lips  the  tighter. 

"That's  enough,"  he  whispered,  in  return. 
"That's  more  than  I  expected.  You've  sentenced 
yourself  already.  Come !" 

Two  officers  in  uniform  barred  their  exit  at  the 
door,  but  Hefflefmger  smiled  easily  and  showed 
his  badge. 

"One  of  Byrnes's  men,"  he  said,  in  explanation; 
"came  over  expressly  to  take  this  chap.  He's  a 
burglar;  'Arlie'  Lane,  alias  Carleton.  I've  shown 
the  papers  to  the  captain.  It's  all  regular.  I'm 

33 


Gallegher 


just  going  to  get  his  traps  at  the  hotel  and  walk 
him  over  to  the  station.  I  guess  we'll  push  right 
on  to  New  York  to-night." 

The  officers  nodded  and  smiled  their  admiration 
for  the  representative  of  what  is,  perhaps,  the  best 
detective  force  in  the  world,  and  let  him  pass. 

Then  Hefflefinger  turned  and  spoke  to  Galle 
gher,  who  still  stood  as  watchful  as  a  dog  at  his 
side.  "I'm  going  to  his  room  to  get  the  bonds  and 
stuff,"  he  whispered;  "then  I'll  march  him  to  the 
station  and  take  that  train.  I've  done  my  share; 
don't  forget  yours!" 

"Oh,  you'll  get  your  money  right  enough,"  said 
Gallegher.  "And,  sa-ay,"  he  added,  with  the  ap 
preciative  nod  of  an  expert,  "do  you  know,  you 
did  it  rather  well." 

Mr.  Dwyer  had  been  writing  while  the  raid  was 
settling  down,  as  he  had  been  writing  while  wait 
ing  for  the  fight  to  begin.  Now  he  walked  over 
to  where  the  other  correspondents  stood  in  angry 
conclave. 

The  newspaper  men  had  informed  the  officers 
who  hemmed  them  in  that  they  represented  the 
principal  papers  of  the  country,  and  were  expos 
tulating  vigorously  with  the  captain,  who  had 
planned  the  raid,  and  who  declared  they  were  un 
der  arrest. 

"Don't  be  an  ass,  Scott,"  said  Mr.  Dwyer,  who 
34 


««  For  God's  sake,"  Wade  begged,  "let  me  go  !  " 


A  Newspaper  Story 

was  too  excited  to  be  polite  or  politic.  "You  know 
our  being  here  isn't  a  matter  of  choice.  We  came 
here  on  business,  as  you  did,  and  you've  no  right 
to  hold  us." 

"If  we  don't  get  our  stuff  on  the  wire  at  once," 
protested  a  New  York  man,  "we'll  be  too  late  for 
to-morrow's  paper,  and — 

Captain  Scott  said  he  did  not  care  a  profanely 
small  amount  for  to-morrow's  paper,  and  that  all 
he  knew  was  that  to  the  station-house  the  news 
paper  men  would  go.  There  they  would  have  a 
hearing,  and  if  the  magistrate  chose  to  let  them 
off,  that  was  the  magistrate's  business,  but  that  his 
duty  was  to  take  them  into  custody. 

"But  then  it  will  be  too  late,  don't  you  under 
stand?"  shouted  Mr.  Dwyer.  "You've  got  to  let 
us  go  now,  at  once." 

"I  can't  do  it,  Mr.  Dwyer,"  said  the  captain, 
"and  that's  all  there  is  to  it.  Why,  haven't  I  just 
sent  the  president  of  the  Junior  Republican  Club 
to  the  patrol-wagon,  the  man  that  put  this  coat 
on  me,  and  do  you  think  I  can  let  you  fellows  go 
after  that?  You  were  all  put  under  bonds  to  keep 
the  peace  not  three  days  ago,  and  here  you're  at 
it — fighting  like  badgers.  It's  worth  my  place  to 
let  one  of  you  off." 

What  Mr.  Dwyer  said  next  was  so  uncompli 
mentary  to  the  gallant  Captain  Scott  that  that 

35 


Gallegher 

overwrought  individual  seized  the  sporting  editor 
by  the  shoulder,  and  shoved  him  into  the  hands 
of  two  of  his  men. 

This  was  more  than  the  distinguished  Mr. 
Dwyer  could  brook,  and  he  excitedly  raised  his 
hand  in  resistance.  But  before  he  had  time  to 
do  anything  foolish  his  wrist  was  gripped  by  one 
strong,  little  hand,  and  he  was  conscious  that  an 
other  was  picking  the  pocket  of  his  great-coat. 

He  slapped  his  hands  to  his  sides,  and  looking 
down,  saw  Gallegher  standing  close  behind  him 
and  holding  him  by  the  wrist.  Mr.  Dwyer  had 
forgotten  the  boy's  existence,  and  would  have 
spoken  sharply  if  something  in  Gallegher's  inno 
cent  eyes  had  not  stopped  him. 

Gallegher's  hand  was  still  in  that  pocket,  in 
which  Mr.  Dwyer  had  shoved  his  note-book  filled 
with  what  he  had  written  of  Gallegher's  work  and 
Hade's  final  capture,  and  with  a  running  descrip 
tive  account  of  the  fight.  With  his  eyes  fixed  on 
Mr.  Dwyer,  Gallegher  drew  it  out,  and  with  a 
quick  movement  shoved  it  inside  his  waistcoat. 
Mr.  Dwyer  gave  a  nod  of  comprehension.  Then 
glancing  at  his  two  guardsmen,  and  finding  that 
they  were  still  interested  in  the  wordy  battle  of 
the  correspondents  with  their  chief,  and  had  seen 
nothing,  he  stooped  and  whispered  to  Gallegher: 
"The  forms  are  locked  at  twenty  minutes  to  three. 

36 


A  Newspaper  Story 

If  you  don't  get  there  by  that  time  it  will  be  of 
no  use,  but  if  you're  on  time  you'll  beat  the  town 
— and  the  country  too." 

Gallegher's  eyes  flashed  significantly,  and  nod 
ding  his  head  to  show  he  understood,  started  bold 
ly  on  a  run  toward  the  door.  But  the  officers  who 
guarded  it  brought  him  to  an  abrupt  halt,  and, 
much  to  Mr.  Dwyer's  astonishment,  drew  from 
him  what  was  apparently  a  torrent  of  tears. 

"Let  me  go  to  me  father.  I  want  me  father," 
the  boy  shrieked,  hysterically.  "They've  'rested 
father.  Oh,  daddy,  daddy.  They're  a-goin'  to 
take  you  to  prison." 

"Who  is  your  father,  sonny?"  asked  one  of  the 
guardians  of  the  gate. 

"Keppler's  me  father,"  sobbed  Gallegher. 
"They're  a-goin'  to  lock  him  up,  and  I'll  never 
see  him  no  more." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  will,"  said  the  officer,  good-nat 
uredly;  "he's  there  in  that  first  patrol-wagon. 
You  can  run  over  and  say  good  night  to  him,  and 
then  you'd  better  get  to  bed.  This  ain't  no  place 
for  kids  of  your  age." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  sniffed  Gallegher,  tearfully, 
as  the  two  officers  raised  their  clubs,  and  let  him 
pass  out  into  the  darkness. 

The  yard  outside  was  in  a  tumult,  horses  were 
stamping,  and  plunging,  and  backing  the  carriages 

37 


Gallegher 

into  one  another;  lights  were  flashing  from  every 
window  of  what  had  been  apparently  an  uninhab 
ited  house,  and  the  voices  of  the  prisoners  were 
still  raised  in  angry  expostulation. 

Three  police  patrol-wagons  were  moving  about 
the  yard,  filled  with  unwilling  passengers,  who  sat 
or  stood,  packed  together  like  sheep,  and  with  no 
protection  from  the  sleet  and  rain. 

Gallegher  stole  off  into  a  dark  corner,  and 
watched  the  scene  until  his  eyesight  became  famil 
iar  with  the  position  of  the  land. 

Then  with  his  eyes  fixed  fearfully  on  the  swing 
ing  light  of  a  lantern  with  which  an  officer  was 
searching  among  the  carriages,  he  groped  his  way 
between  horses'  hoofs  and  behind  the  wheels  of 
carriages  to  the  cab  which  he  had  himself  placed 
at  the  furthermost  gate.  It  was  still  there,  and  the 
horse,  as  he  had  left  it,  with  its  head  turned 
toward  the  city.  Gallegher  opened  the  big  gate 
noiselessly,  and  worked  nervously  at  the  hitching 
strap.  The  knot  was  covered  with  a  thin  coating 
of  ice,  and  it  was  several  minutes  before  he  could 
loosen  it.  But  his  teeth  finally  pulled  it  apart,  and 
with  the  reins  in  his  hands  he  sprang  upon  the 
wheel.  And  as  he  stood  so,  a  shock  of  fear  ran 
down  his  back  like  an  electric  current,  his  breath 
left  him,  and  he  stood  immovable,  gazing  with 
wide  eyes  into  the  darkness. 

38 


A  Newspaper  Story 

The  officer  with  the  lantern  had  suddenly  loomed 
up  from  behind  a  carriage  not  fifty  feet  distant,  and 
was  standing  perfectly  still,  with  his  lantern  held 
over  his  head,  peering  so  directly  toward  Galle- 
gher  that  the  boy  felt  that  he  must  see  him.  Gal- 
legher  stood  with  one  foot  on  the  hub  of  the  wheel 
and  with  the  other  on  the  box  waiting  to  spring. 
It  seemed  a  minute  before  either  of  them  moved, 
and  then  the  officer  took  a  step  forward,  and  de 
manded  sternly,  "Who  is  that?  What  are  you 
doing  there?" 

There  was  no  time  for  parley  then.  Gallegher 
felt  that  he  had  been  taken  in  the  act,  and  that  his 
only  chance  lay  in  open  flight.  He  leaped  up  on 
the  box,  pulling  out  the  whip  as  he  did  so,  and 
with  a  quick  sweep  lashed  the  horse  across  the 
head  and  back.  The  animal  sprang  forward  with 
a  snort,  narrowly  clearing  the  gate-post,  and 
plunged  off  into  the  darkness. 

"Stop!"  cried  the  officer. 

So  many  of  Gallegher's  acquaintances  among 
the  'longshoremen  and  mill  hands  had  been  chal 
lenged  in  so  much  the  same  manner  that  Galle 
gher  knew  what  would  probably  follow  if  the  chal 
lenge  was  disregarded.  So  he  slipped  from  his 
seat  to  the  footboard  below,  and  ducked  his  head. 

The  three  reports  of  a  pistol,  which  rang  out 
briskly  from  behind  him,  proved  that  his  early 

39 


Gallegher 

training  had  given  him  a  valuable  fund  of  useful 
miscellaneous  knowledge. 

"Don't  you  be  scared,"  he  said,  reassuringly, 
to  the  horse;  "he's  firing  in  the  air." 

The  pistol-shots  were  answered  by  the  impatient 
clangor  of  a  patrol-wagon's  gong,  and  glancing 
over  his  shoulder  Gallegher  saw  its  red  and  green 
lanterns  tossing  from  side  to  side  and  looking  in 
the  darkness  like  the  side-lights  of  a  yacht  plung 
ing  forward  in  a  storm. 

"I  hadn't  bargained  to  race  you  against  no  pa 
trol-wagons,"  said  Gallegher  to  his  animal;  "but 
if  they  want  a  race,  we'll  give  them  a  tough  tussle 
for  it,  won't  we?" 

Philadelphia,  lying  four  miles  to  the  south,  sent 
up  a  faint  yellow  glow  to  the  sky.  It  seemed  very 
far  away,  and  Gallegher's  braggadocio  grew  cold 
within  him  at  the  loneliness  of  his  adventure  and 
the  thought  of  the  long  ride  before  him. 

It  was  still  bitterly  cold. 

The  rain  and  sleet  beat  through  his  clothes,  and 
struck  his  skin  with  a  sharp  chilling  touch  that  set 
him  trembling. 

Even  the  thought  of  the  over-weighted  patrol- 
wagon  probably  sticking  in  the  mud  some  safe  dis 
tance  in  the  rear,  failed  to  cheer  him,  and  the  ex 
citement  that  had  so  far  made  him  callous  to  the 
cold  died  out  and  left  him  weaker  and  nervous. 

40 


A  Newspaper  Story 

But  his  horse  was  chilled  with  the  long  stand 
ing,  and  now  leaped  eagerly  forward,  only  too 
willing  to  warm  the  half-frozen  blood  in  its 
veins. 

"You're  a  good  beast,"  said  Gallegher,  plain 
tively.  "You've  got  more  nerve  than  me.  Don't 
you  go  back  on  me  now.  Mr.  Dwyer  says  we've 
got  to  beat  the  town."  Gallegher  had  no  idea 
what  time  it  was  as  he  rode  through  the  night,  but 
he  knew  he  would  be  able  to  find  out  from  a  big 
clock  over  a  manufactory  at  a  point  nearly  three- 
quarters  of  the  distance  from  Keppler's  to  the 
goal. 

He  was  still  in  the  open  country  and  driving 
recklessly,  for  he  knew  the  best  part  of  his  ride 
must  be  made  outside  the  city  limits. 

He  raced  between  desolate-looking  corn-fields 
with  bare  stalks  and  patches  of  muddy  earth  rising 
above  the  thin  covering  of  snow,  truck  farms  and 
brick-yards  fell  behind  him  on  either  side.  It  was 
very  lonely  work,  and  once  or  twice  the  dogs  ran 
yelping  to  the  gates  and  barked  after  him. 

Part  of  his  way  lay  parallel  with  the  railroad 
tracks,  and  he  drove  for  some  time  beside  long 
lines  of  freight  and  coal  cars  as  they  stood  resting 
for  the  night.  The  fantastic  Queen  Anne  sub 
urban  stations  were  dark  and  deserted,  but  in  one 
or  two  of  the  block-towers  he  could  see  the  oper- 


Gallegher 

ators  writing  at  their  desks,  and  the  sight  in  some 
way  comforted  him. 

Once  he  thought  of  stopping  to  get  out  the 
blanket  in  which  he  had  wrapped  himself  on  the 
first  trip,  but  he  feared  to  spare  the  time,  and 
drove  on  with  his  teeth  chattering  and  his  shoul 
ders  shaking  with  the  cold. 

He  welcomed  the  first  solitary  row  of  darkened 
houses  with  a  faint  cheer  of  recognition.  The 
scattered  lamp-posts  lightened  his  spirits,  and  even 
the  badly  paved  streets  rang  under  the  beats  of 
his  horse's  feet  like  music.  Great  mills  and  manu 
factories,  with  only  a  night-watchman's  light  in 
the  lowest  of  their  many  stories,  began  to  take  the 
place  of  the  gloomy  farm-houses  and  gaunt  trees 
that  had  startled  him  with  their  grotesque  shapes. 
He  had  been  driving  nearly  an  hour,  he  calculated, 
and  in  that  time  the  rain  had  changed  to  a  wet 
snow,  that  fell  heavily  and  clung  to  whatever  it 
touched.  He  passed  block  after  block  of  trim 
workmen's  houses,  as  still  and  silent  as  the  sleepers 
within  them,  and  at  last  he  turned  the  horse's  head 
into  Broad  Street,  the  city's  great  thoroughfare, 
that  stretches  from  its  one  end  to  the  other  and 
cuts  it  evenly  in  two. 

He  was  driving  noiselessly  over  the  snow  and 
slush  in  the  street,  with  his  thoughts  bent  only  on 
the  clock-face  he  wished  so  much  to  see,  when  a 

42 


A   Newspaper  Story 

hoarse  voice  challenged  him  from  the  side 
walk.  "Hey,  you,  stop  there,  hold  up!"  said 
the  voice. 

Gallegher  turned  his  head,  and  though  he  saw 
that  the  voice  came  from  under  a  policeman's  hel 
met,  his  only  answer  was  to  hit  his  horse  sharply 
over  the  head  with  his  whip  and  to  urge  it  into 
a  gallop. 

This,  on  his  part,  was  followed  by  a  sharp, 
shrill  whistle  from  the  policeman.  Another  whis 
tle  answered  it  from  a  street-corner  one  block  ahead 
of  him.  "Whoa,"  said  Gallegher,  pulling  on  the 
reins.  "There's  one  too  many  of  them,"  he  added, 
in  apologetic  explanation.  The  horse  stopped,  and 
stood,  breathing  heavily,  with  great  clouds  of  steam 
rising  from  its  flanks. 

"Why  in  hell  didn't  you  stop  when  I  told  you 
to?"  demanded  the  voice,  now  close  at  the  cab's 
side. 

"I  didn't  hear  you,"  returned  Gallegher,  sweet 
ly.  "But  I  heard  you  whistle,  and  I  heard  your 
partner  whistle,  and  I  thought  maybe  it  was  me 
you  wanted  to  speak  to,  so  I  just  stopped." 

"You  heard  me  well  enough.  Why  aren't  your 
lights  lit?"  demanded  the  voice. 

"Should  I  have  'em  lit?"  asked  Gallegher,  bend 
ing  over  and  regarding  them  with  sudden  in 
terest. 

43 


Gallegher 


"You  know  you  should,  and  if  you  don't,  you've 
no  right  to  be  driving  that  cab.  I  don't  believe 
you're  the  regular  driver,  anyway.  Where'd  you 
get  it?" 

"It  ain't  my  cab,  of  course,"  said  Gallegher, 
with  an  easy  laugh.  "It's  Luke  McGovern's.  He 
left  it  outside  Cronin's  while  he  went  in  to  get 
a  drink,  and  he  took  too  much,  and  me  father  told 
me  to  drive  it  round  to  the  stable  for  him.  I'm 
Cronin's  son.  McGovern  ain't  in  no  condition  to 
drive.  You  can  see  yourself  how  he's  been  mis 
using  the  horse.  He  puts  it  up  at  Bachman's 
livery  stable,  and  I  was  just  going  around  there 
now." 

Gallegher's  knowledge  of  the  local  celebrities 
of  the  district  confused  the  zealous  officer  of  the 
peace.  He  surveyed  the  boy  with  a  steady  stare 
that  would  have  distressed  a  less  skilful  liar,  but 
Gallegher  only  shrugged  his  shoulders  slightly, 
as  if  from  the  cold,  and  waited  with  apparent  in 
difference  to  what  the  officer  would  say  next. 

In  reality  his  heart  was  beating  heavily  against 
his  side,  and  he  felt  that  if  he  was  kept  on  a  strain 
much  longer  he  would  give  way  and  break  down. 
A  second  snow-covered  form  emerged  suddenly 
from  the  shadow  of  the  houses. 

"What  is  it,  Reeder?"  it  asked. 

"Oh,  nothing  much,"  replied  the  first  officer. 
44 


A   Newspaper  Story 

"This  kid  hadn't  any  lamps  lit,  so  I  called  to 
him  to  stop  and  he  didn't  do  it,  so  I  whistled  to 
you.  It's  all  right,  though.  He's  just  taking  it 
round  to  Bachman's.  Go  ahead,"  he  added,  sulk- 
ily. 

"Get  up  I"  chirped  Gallegher.  "Good  night," 
he  added,  over  his  shoulder. 

Gallegher  gave  an  hysterical  little  gasp  of  re 
lief  as  he  trotted  away  from  the  two  policemen, 
and  poured  bitter  maledictions  on  their  heads  for 
two  meddling  fools  as  he  went. 

"They  might  as  well  kill  a  man  as  scare  him 
to  death,"  he  said,  with  an  attempt  to  get  back 
to  his  customary  flippancy.  But  the  effort  was 
somewhat  pitiful,  and  he  felt  guiltily  conscious 
that  a  salt,  warm  tear  was  creeping  slowly  down 
his  face,  and  that  a  lump  that  would  not  keep 
down  was  rising  in  his  throat. 

"  'Tain't  no  fair  thing  for  the  whole  police 
force  to  keep  worrying  at  a  little  boy  like  me," 
he  said,  in  shame-faced  apology.  "I'm  not  doing 
nothing  wrong,  and  I'm  half  froze  to  death,  and 
yet  they  keep  a-nagging  at  me." 

It  was  so  cold  that  when  the  boy  stamped  his 
feet  against  the  footboard  to  keep  them  warm, 
sharp  pains  shot  up  through  his  body,  and  when 
he  beat  his  arms  about  his  shoulders,  as  he  had 
seen  real  cabmen  do,  the  blood  in  his  finger-tips 

45 


Gallegher 


tingled  so  acutely  that  he  cried  aloud  with  the 
pain. 

He  had  often  been  up  that  late  before,  but  he 
had  never  felt  so  sleepy.  It  was  as  if  some  one 
was  pressing  a  sponge  heavy  with  chloroform 
near  his  face,  and  he  could  not  fight  off  the  drow 
siness  that  lay  hold  of  him. 

He  saw,  dimly  hanging  above  his  head,  a  round 
disc  of  light  that  seemed  like  a  great  moon,  and 
which  he  finally  guessed  to  be  the  clock-face  for 
which  he  had  been  on  the  look-out.  He  had 
passed  it  before  he  realized  this;  but  the  fact 
stirred  him  into  wakefulness  again,  and  when  his 
cab's  wheels  slipped  around  the  City  Hall  corner, 
he  remembered  to  look  up  at  the  other  big  clock- 
face  that  keeps  awake  over  the  railroad  station 
and  measures  out  the  night. 

He  gave  a  gasp  of  consternation  when  he  saw 
that  it  was  half-past  two,  and  that  there  was  but 
ten  minutes  left  to  him.  This,  and  the  many 
electric  lights  and  the  sight  of  the  familiar  pile 
of  buildings,  startled  him  into  a  semi-conscious 
ness  of  where  he  was  and  how  great  was  the  ne 
cessity  for  haste. 

He  rose  in  his  seat  and  called  on  the  horse,  and 
urged  it  into  a  reckless  gallop  over  the  slippery 
asphalt.  He  considered  nothing  else  but  speed, 
and  looking  neither  to  the  left  nor  right  dashed 

46 


A  Newspaper  Story 

off  down  Broad  Street  into  Chestnut,  where  his 
course  lay  straight  away  to  the  office,  now  only 
seven  blocks  distant. 

Gallegher  never  knew  how  it  began,  but  he  was 
suddenly  assaulted  by  shouts  on  either  side,  his 
horse  was  thrown  back  on  its  haunches,  and  he 
found  two  men  in  cabmen's  livery  hanging  at  its 
head,  and  patting  its  sides,  and  calling  it  by  name. 
And  the  other  cabmen  who  have  their  stand  at 
the  corner  were  swarming  about  the  carriage,  all 
of  them  talking  and  swearing  at  once,  and  ges 
ticulating  wildly  with  their  whips. 

They  said  they  knew  the  cab  was  McGovern's, 
and  they  wanted  to  know  where  he  was,  and  why 
he  wasn't  on  it;  they  wanted  to  know  where  Gal 
legher  had  stolen  it,  and  why  he  had  been  such  a 
fool  as  to  drive  it  into  the  arms  of  its  owner's 
friends;  they  said  that  it  was  about  time  that  a 
cab-driver  could  get  off  his  box  to  take  a  drink 
without  having  his  cab  run  away  with,  and  some 
of  them  called  loudly  for  a  policeman  to  take  the 
young  thief  in  charge. 

Gallegher  felt  as  if  he  had  been  suddenly 
dragged  into  consciousness  out  of  a  bad  dream, 
and  stood  for  a  second  like  a  half-awakened  som 
nambulist. 

They  had  stopped  the  cab  under  an  electric 
light,  and  its  glare  shone  coldly  down  upon  the 

47 


Gallegher 

trampled  snow  and  the  faces  of  the  men  around 
him. 

Gallegher  bent  forward,  and  lashed  savagely  at 
the  horse  with  his  whip. 

"Let  me  go,"  he  shouted,  as  he  tugged  impo- 
tently  at  the  reins.  "Let  me  go,  I  tell  you.  I 
haven't  stole  no  cab,  and  you've  got  no  right  to 
stop  me.  I  only  want  to  take  it  to  the  Press 
office,"  he  begged.  "They'll  send  it  back  to  you 
all  right.  They'll  pay  you  for  the  trip.  I'm  not 
running  away  with  it.  The  driver's  got  the  col 
lar — he's  'rested — and  I'm  only  a-going  to  the 
Press  office.  Do  you  hear  me?"  he  cried,  his 
voice  rising  and  breaking  in  a  shriek  of  passion 
and  disappointment.  "I  tell  you  to  let  go  those 
reins.  Let  me  go,  or  I'll  kill  you.  Do  you  hear 
me?  I'll  kill  you."  And  leaning  forward,  the 
boy  struck  savagely  with  his  long  whip  at  the  faces 
of  the  men  about  the  horse's  head. 

Some  one  in  the  crowd  reached  up  and  caught 
him  by  the  ankles,  and  with  a  quick  jerk  pulled 
him  off  the  box,  and  threw  him  on  to  the  street. 
But  he  was  up  on  his  knees  in  a  moment,  and 
caught  at  the  man's  hand. 

"Don't  let  them  stop  me,  mister,"  he  cried, 
"please  let  me  go.  I  didn't  steal  the  cab,  sir. 
S'help  me,  I  didn't.  I'm  telling  you  the  truth. 

48 


A   Newspaper  Story 

Take  me  to  the  Press  office,  and  they'll  prove  It  to 
you.  They'll  pay  you  anything  you  ask  'em.  It's 
only  such  a  little  ways  now,  and  I've  come  so  far, 
sir.  Please  don't  let  them  stop  me,"  he  sobbed, 
clasping  the  man  about  the  knees.  "For  Heaven's 
sake,  mister,  let  me  go!" 


The  managing  editor  of  the  Press  took  up  the 
india-rubber  speaking-tube  at  his  side,  and  an 
swered,  "Not  yet"  to  an  inquiry  the  night  editor 
had  already  put  to  him  five  times  within  the  last 
twenty  minutes. 

Then  he  snapped  the  metal  top  of  the  tube  im 
patiently,  and  went  up-stairs.  As  he  passed  the 
door  of  the  local  room,  he  noticed  that  the  re 
porters  had  not  gone  home,  but  were  sitting  about 
on  the  tables  and  chairs,  waiting.  They  looked 
up  inquiringly  as  he  passed,  and  the  city  editor 
asked,  "Any  news  yet?"  and  the  managing  editor 
shook  his  head. 

The  compositors  were  standing  idle  in  the  com 
posing-room,  and  their  foreman  was  talking  with 
the  night  editor. 

"Well,"  said  that  gentleman,  tentatively. 

"Well,"  returned  the  managing  editor,  "I  don't 
think  we  can  wait;  do  you?" 

49 


Gallcgher 

"It's  a  half-hour  after  time  now,"  said  the  night 
editor,  "and  we'll  miss  the  suburban  trains  if  we 
hold  the  paper  back  any  longer.  We  can't  afford 
to  wait  for  a  purely  hypothetical  story.  The 
chances  are  all  against  the  fight's  having  taken 
place  or  this  Hade's  having  been  arrested." 

"But  if  we're  beaten  on  it — "  suggested  the 
chief.  "But  I  don't  think  that  is  possible.  If 
there  were  any  story  to  print,  Dwyer  would  have 
had  it  here  before  now." 

The  managing  editor  looked  steadily  down  at 
the  floor. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  slowly,  "we  won't  wait 
any  longer.  Go  ahead,"  he  added,  turning  to  the 
foreman  with  a  sigh  of  reluctance.  The  foreman 
whirled  himself  about,  and  began  to  give  his  or 
ders;  but  the  two  editors  still  looked  at  each  other 
doubtfully. 

As  they  stood  so,  there  came  a  sudden  shout 
and  the  sound  of  people  running  to  and  fro  in  the 
reportorial  rooms  below.  There  was  the  tramp 
of  many  footsteps  on  the  stairs,  and  above  the 
confusion  they  heard  the  voice  of  the  city  editor 
telling  some  one  to  "run  to  Madden's  and  get 
some  brandy,  quick." 

No  one  in  the  composing-room  said  anything; 
6ut  those  compositors  who  had  started  to  go  home 

50 


A  Newspaper  Story- 
began  slipping  off  their  overcoats,  and  every  one 
stood  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  door. 

It  was  kicked  open  from  the  outside,  and  in  the 
doorway  stood  a  cab-driver  and  the  city  editor, 
supporting  between  them  a  pitiful  little  figure  of 
a  boy,  wet  and  miserable,  and  with  the  snow 
melting  on  his  clothes  and  running  in  little 
pools  to  the  floor.  "Why,  it's  Gallegher,"  said 
the  night  editor,  in  a  tone  of  the  keenest  disap 
pointment. 

Gallegher  shook  himself  free  from  his  support 
ers,  and  took  an  unsteady  step  forward,  his  fingers 
fumbling  stiffly  with  the  buttons  of  his  waist 
coat. 

"Mr.  Dwyer,  sir,"  he  began  faintly,  with  his 
eyes  fixed  fearfully  on  the  managing  editor,  "he 
got  arrested — and  I  couldn't  get  here  no  sooner, 
'cause  they  kept  a-stopping  me,  and  they  took  me 
cab  from  under  me — but —  '  he  pulled  the  note 
book  from  his  breast  and  held  it  out  with  its  cov 
ers  damp  and  limp  from  the  rain,  "but  we  got 
Hade,  and  here's  Mr.  Dwyer's  copy." 

And  then  he  asked,  with  a  queer  note  in  his 
voice,  partly  of  dread  and  partly  of  hope,  "Am 
I  in  time,  sir?" 

The  managing  editor  took  the  book,  and  tossed 
it  to  the  foreman,  who  ripped  out  its  leaves  and 


Gallegher 

dealt  them  out  to  his  men  as  rapidly  as  a  gambler 
deals  out  cards. 

Then  the  managing  editor  stooped  and  picked 
Gallegher  up  in  his  arms,  and,  sitting  down,  be 
gan  to  unlace  his  wet  and  muddy  shoes. 

Gallegher  made  a  faint  effort  to  resist  this 
degradation  of  the  managerial  dignity;  but  his 
protest  was  a  very  feeble  one,  and  his  head  fell 
back  heavily  on  the  managing  editor's  shoulder. 

To  Gallegher  the  incandescent  lights  began  to 
whirl  about  in  circles,  and  to  burn  in  different 
colors;  the  faces  of  the  reporters  kneeling  before 
him  and  chafing  his  hands  and  feet  grew  dim  and 
unfamiliar,  and  the  roar  and  rumble  of  the  great 
presses  in  the  basement  sounded  far  away,  like 
the  murmur  of  the  sea. 

And  then  the  place  and  the  circumstances  of  it 
came  back  to  him  again  sharply  and  with  sudden 
vividness. 

Gallegher  looked  up,  with  a  faint  smile,  into 
the  managing  editor's  face.  "You  won't  turn  me 
off  for  running  away,  will  you?"  he  whispered. 

The  managing  editor  did  not  answer  immedi 
ately.  His  head  was  bent,  and  he  was  thinking, 
for  some  reason  or  other,  of  a  little  boy  of  his 
own,  at  home  in  bed.  Then  he  said,  quietly, 
"Not  this  time,  Gallcgher." 

52 


A  Newspaper  Story 

Gallagher's  head  sank  back  comfortably  on  the 
older  man's  shoulder,  and  he  smiled  comprehen 
sively  at  the  faces  of  the  young  men  crowded 
around  him.  "You  hadn't  ought  to,"  he  said, 
with  a  touch  of  his  old  impudence,  "  'cause — I 
beat  the  town." 


53 


WALK  UP  THE  AVENUE 


A  Walk  Up  the  Avenue 

HE  came  down  the  steps  slowly,  and  pulling 
mechanically  at  his  gloves. 

He  remembered  afterwards  that  some  woman's 
face  had  nodded  brightly  to  him  from  a  passing 
brougham,  and  that  he  had  lifted  his  hat  through 
force  of  habit,  and  without  knowing  who  she  was. 

He  stopped  at  the  bottom  of  the  steps,  and 
stood  for  a  moment  uncertainly,  and  then  turned 
toward  the  north,  not  because  he  had  any  definite 
goal  in  his  mind,  but  because  the  other  way  led 
toward  his  rooms,  and  he  did  not  want  to  go  there 
yet. 

He  was  conscious  of  a  strange  feeling  of  elation, 
which  he  attributed  to  his  being  free,  and  to  the 
fact  that  he  was  his  own  master  again  in  every 
thing.  And  with  this  he  confessed  to  a  distinct 
feeling  of  littleness,  of  having  acted  meanly  or 
unworthily  of  himself  or  of  her. 

And  yet  he  had  behaved  well,  even  quixotically. 
He  had  tried  to  leave  the  impression  with  her  that 
it  was  her  wish,  and  that  she  had  broken  with 
him,  not  he  with  her. 

57 


A  Walk   Up  the  Avenue 

He  held  a  man  who  threw  a  girl  over  as  some 
thing  contemptible,  and  he  certainly  did  not  want 
to  appear  to  himself  in  that  light;  or,  for  her 
sake,  that  people  should  think  he  had  tired  of  her, 
or  found  her  wanting  in  any  one  particular.  He 
knew  only  too  well  how  people  would  talk.  How 
they  would  say  he  had  never  really  cared  for  her; 
that  he  didn't  know  his  own  mind  when  he  had 
proposed  to  her;  and  that  it  was  a  great  deal  bet 
ter  for  her  as  it  is  than  if  he  had  grown  out  of 
humor  with  her  later.  As  to  their  saying  she  had 
jilted  him,  he  didn't  mind  that.  He  much  pre 
ferred  they  should  take  that  view  of  it,  and  he 
was  chivalrous  enough  to  hope  she  would  think 
so  too. 

He  was  walking  slowly,  and  had  reached  Thir 
tieth  Street.  A  great  many  young  girls  and 
women  had  bowed  to  him  or  nodded  from  the 
passing  carriages,  but  it  did  not  tend  to  disturb 
the  measure  of  his  thoughts.  He  was  used  to 
having  people  put  themselves  out  to  speak  to  him; 
everybody  made  a  point  of  knowing  him,  not  be 
cause  he  was  so  very  handsome  and  well-looking, 
arid  an  over-popular  youth,  but  because  he  was  as 
yet  unspoiled  by  it. 

But,  in  any  event,  he  concluded,  it  was  a  mis 
erable  business.  Still,  he  had  only  done  what  was 
right.  He  had  seen  it  coming  on  for  a  month 

58 


A  Walk  Up  the  Avenue 

now,  and  how  much  better  it  was  that  they  should 
separate  now  than  later,  or  that  they  should  have 
had  to  live  separated  in  all  but  location  for  the 
rest  of  their  lives!  Yes,  he  had  done  the  right 
thing — decidedly  the  only  thing  to  do. 

He  was  still  walking  up  the  Avenue,  and  had 
reached  Thirty-second  Street,  at  which  point  his 
thoughts  received  a  sudden  turn.  A  half-dozen 
men  in  a  club  window  nodded  to  him,  and  brought 
to  him  sharply  what  he  was  going  back  to.  He 
had  dropped  out  of  their  lives  as  entirely  of  late 
as  though  he  had  been  living  in  a  distant  city. 
When  he  had  met  them  he  had  found  their  com 
pany  uninteresting  and  unprofitable.  He  had 
wondered  how  he  had  ever  cared  for  that  sort 
of  thing,  and  where  had  been  the  pleasure  of  it. 
Was  he  going  back  now  to  the  gossip  of  that 
window,  to  the  heavy  discussions  of  traps  and 
horses,  to  late  breakfasts  and  early  suppers? 
Must  he  listen  to  their  congratulations  on  his 
being  one  of  them  again,  and  must  he  guess  at 
their  whispered  conjectures  as  to  how  soon  it 
would  be  before  he  again  took  up  the  chains  and 
harness  of  their  fashion?  He  struck  the  pave 
ment  sharply  with  his  stick.  No,  he  was  not  going 
back. 

She  had  taught  him  to  find  amusement  and  oc 
cupation  in  many  things  that  were  better  and  high- 

59 


A  Walk  Up  the  Avenue 

er  than  any  pleasures  or  pursuits  he  had  known 
before,  and  he  could  not  give  them  up.  He  had 
her  to  thank  for  that  at  least.  And  he  would  give 
her  credit  for  it  too,  and  gratefully.  He  would 
always  remember  it,  and  he  would  show  in  his 
way  of  living  the  influence  and  the  good  effects 
of  these  three  months  in  which  they  had  been  con 
tinually  together. 

He  had  reached  Forty-second  Street  now. 

Well,  it  was  over  with,  and  he  would  get  to 
work  at  something  or  other.  This  experience  had 
shown  him  that  he  was  not  meant  for  marriage; 
that  he  was  intended  to  live  alone.  Because,  if 
he  found  that  a  girl  as  lovely  as  she  undeniably 
was  palled  on  him  after  three  months,  it  was  evi 
dent  that  he  would  never  live  through  life  with 
any  other  one.  Yes,  he  would  always  be  a  bach 
elor.  He  had  lived  his  life,  had  told  his  story 
at  the  age  of  twenty-five,  and  would  wait  patiently 
for  the  end,  a  marked  and  gloomy  man.  He 
would  travel  now  and  see  the  world.  He  would 
go  to  that  hotel  in  Cairo  she  was  always  talking 
about,  where  they  were  to  have  gone  on  their 
honeymoon;  or  he  might  strike  further  into  Afri 
ca,  and  come  back  bronzed  and  worn  with  long 
marches  and  jungle  fever,  and  with  his  hair  pre 
maturely  white.  He  even  considered  himself, 
with  great  self-pity,  returning  and  finding  her 

60 


A  Walk  Up  the  Avenue 

married  and  happy,  of  course.  And  he  enjoyed, 
in  anticipation,  the  secret  doubts  she  would  have 
of  her  later  choice  when  she  heard  on  all  sides 
praise  of  this  distinguished  traveller. 

And  he  pictured  himself  meeting  her  reproach 
ful  glances  with  fatherly  friendliness,  and  pre 
senting  her  husband  with  tiger-skins,  and  buying 
her  children  extravagant  presents. 

This  was  at  Forty-fifth  Street. 

Yes,  that  was  decidedly  the  best  thing  to  do. 
To  go  away  and  improve  himself,  and  study  up 
all  those  painters  and  cathedrals  with  which  she 
was  so  hopelessly  conversant. 

He  remembered  how  out  of  it  she  had  once 
made  him  feel,  and  how  secretly  he  had  admired 
her  when  she  had  referred  to  a  modern  painting 
as  looking  like  those  in  the  long  gallery  of  the 
Louvre.  He  thought  he  knew  all  about  the  Lou 
vre,  but  he  would  go  over  again  and  locate  that 
long  gallery,  and  become  able  to  talk  to  her  un- 
derstandingly  about  it. 

And  then  it  came  over  him  like  a  blast  of  icy 
air  that  he  could  never  talk  over  things  with  her 
again.  He  had  reached  Fifty-fifth  Street  now, 
and  the  shock  brought  him  to  a  standstill  on  the 
corner,  where  he  stood  gazing  blankly  before  him. 
He  felt  rather  weak  physically,  and  decided  to 
go  back  to  his  rooms,  and  then  he  pictured  how 

61 


cheerless  they  would  look,  and  how  little  of  com 
fort  they  contained.  He  had  used  them  only  to 
dress  and  sleep  in  of  late,  and  the  distaste  with 
which  he  regarded  the  idea  that  he  must  go  back 
to  them  to  read  and  sit  and  live  in  them,  showed 
him  how  utterly  his  life  had  become  bound  up 
with  the  house  on  Twenty-seventh  Street. 

"Where  was  he  to  go  in  the  evening?"  he  asked 
himself,  with  pathetic  hopelessness,  "or  in  the 
morning  or  afternoon  for  that  matter?"  Were 
there  to  be  no  more  of  those  journeys  to  picture- 
galleries  and  to  the  big  publishing  houses,  where 
they  used  to  hover  over  the  new  book  counter  and 
pull  the  books  about,  and  make  each  other  innu 
merable  presents  of  daintily  bound  volumes,  until 
the  clerks  grew  to  know  them  so  well  that  they 
never  went  through  the  form  of  asking  where  the 
books  were  to  be  sent?  And  those  tete-a-tete 
luncheons  at  her  house  when  her  mother  was  up 
stairs  with  a  headache  or  a  dressmaker,  and  the 
long  rides  and  walks  in  the  Park  in  the  afternoon, 
and  the  rush  down  town  to  dress,  only  to  return 
to  dine  with  them,  ten  minutes  late  always,  and 
always  with  some  new  excuse,  which  was  allowed 
if  it  was  clever,  and  frowned  at  if  it  was  common 
place — was  all  this  really  over? 

Why,  the  town  had  only  run  on  because  she 
was  in  it,  and  as  he  walked  the  streets  the  very 

62 


A  Walk  Up  the  Avenue 

shop  windows  had  suggested  her  to  him — florists 
only  existed  that  he  might  send  her  flowers,  and 
gowns  and  bonnets  in  the  milliners'  windows  were 
only  pretty  as  they  would  become  her;  and  as  for 
the  theatres  and  the  newspapers,  they  were  only 
worth  while  as  they  gave  her  pleasure.  And  he 
had  given  all  this  up,  and  for  what,  he  asked 
himself,  and  why? 

He  could  not  answer  that  now.  It  was  simply 
because  he  had  been  surfeited  with  too  much  con- 
.tent,  he  replied,  passionately.  He  had  not  appre 
ciated  how  happy  he  had  been.  She  had  been 
too  kind,  too  gracious.  He  had  never  known  un 
til  he  had  quarrelled  with  her  and  lost  her  how 
precious  and  dear  she  had  been  to  him. 

He  was  at  the  entrance  to  the  Park  now,  and  he 
strode  on  along  the  walk,  bitterly  upbraiding  him 
self  for  being  worse  than  a  criminal — a  fool,  a 
common  blind  mortal  to  whom  a  goddess  had 
stooped. 

He  remembered  with  bitter  regret  a  turn  off 
the  drive  into  which  they  had  wandered  one  day, 
a  secluded,  pretty  spot  with  a  circle  of  box  around 
it,  and  into  the  turf  of  which  he  had  driven  his 
stick,  and  claimed  it  for  them  both  by  the  right 
of  discovery.  And  he  recalled  how  they  had  used 
to  go  there,  just  out  of  sight  of  their  friends  in  the 
ride,  and  sit  and  chatter  on  a  green  bench  beneath 

63 


A  Walk  Up  the  Avenue 

a  bush  of  box,  like  any  nursery  maid  and  her 
young  man,  while  her  groom  stood  at  the 
brougham  door  in  the  bridle-path  beyond.  He 
had  broken  off  a  sprig  of  the  box  one  day  and 
given  it  to  her,  and  she  had  kissed  it  foolishly, 
and  laughed,  and  hidden  it  in  the  folds  of  her 
riding-skirt,  in  burlesque  fear  lest  the  guards 
should  arrest  them  for  breaking  the  much-adver 
tised  ordinance. 

And  he  remembered  with  a  miserable  smile  how 
she  had  delighted  him  with  her  account  of  her 
adventure  to  her  mother,  and  described  them  as 
fleeing  down  the  Avenue  with  their  treasure,  pur 
sued  by  a  squadron  of  mounted  policemen. 

This  and  a  hundred  other  of  the  foolish,  happy 
fancies  they  had  shared  in  common  came  back  to 
him,  and  he  remembered  how  she  had  stopped 
one  cold  afternoon  just  outside  of  this  favorite 
spot,  beside  an  open  iron  grating  sunk  in  the  path, 
into  which  the  rain  had  washed  the  autumn  leaves, 
and  pretended  it  was  a  steam  radiator,  and  held 
her  slim  gloved  hands  out  over  it  as  if  to  warm 
them. 

How  absurdly  happy  she  used  to  make  him,  and 
how  light-hearted  she  had  been !  He  determined 
suddenly  and  sentimentally  to  go  to  that  secret 
place  now,  and  bury  the  engagement  ring  she  had 
handed  back  to  him  under  that  bush  as  he 

64 


A  Walk  Up  the  Avenue 

buried  his  hopes  of  happiness,  and  he  pictured 
how  some  day  when  he  was  dead  she  would  read 
of  this  in  his  will,  and  go  and  dig  up  the  ring,  and 
remember  and  forgive  him.  He  struck  off  from 
the  walk  across  the  turf  straight  toward  this  dell, 
taking  the  ring  from  his  waistcoat  pocket  and 
clinching  it  in  his  hand.  He  was  walking  quickly 
with  rapt  interest  in  this  idea  of  abnegation  when 
he  noticed,  unconsciously  at  first  and  then  with 
a  start,  the  familiar  outlines  and  colors  of  her 
brougham  drawn  up  in  the  drive  not  twenty  yards 
from  their  old  meeting-place.  He  could  not  be 
mistaken;  he  knew  the  horses  well  enough,  and 
there  was  old  Wallis  on  the  box  and  young  Wallis 
on  the  path. 

He  stopped  breathlessly,  and  then  tipped  on 
cautiously,  keeping  the  encircling  line  of  bushes 
between  him  and  the  carriage.  And  then  he  saw 
through  the  leaves  that  there  was  some  one  in  the 
place,  and  that  it  was  she.  He  stopped,  confused 
and  amazed.  He  could  not  comprehend  it.  She 
must  have  driven  to  the  place  immediately  on  his 
departure.  But  why?  And  why  to  that  place 
of  all  others? 

He  parted  the  bushes  with  his  hands,  and  saw 
her  lovely  and  sweet-looking  as  she  had  always 
been,  standing  under  the  box  bush  beside  the  bench, 
and  breaking  off  one  of  the  green  branches.  The 

65 


A  Walk   Up  the  Avenue 

branch  parted  and  the  stem  flew  back  to  its  place 
again,  leaving  a  green  sprig  in  her  hand.  She 
turned  at  that  moment  directly  toward  him,  and 
he  could  see  from  his  hiding-place  how  she  lifted 
the  leaves  to  her  lips,  and  that  a  tear  was  creeping 
down  her  cheek. 

Then  he  dashed  the  bushes  aside  with  both 
arms,  and  with  a  cry  that  no  one  but  she  heard 
sprang  toward  her. 

Young  Van  Bibber  stopped  his  mail  phaeton 
in  front  of  the  club,  and  went  inside  to  recuper 
ate,  and  told  how  he  had  seen  them  driving  home 
through  the  Park  in  her  brougham  and  unchap- 
eroned. 

"Which  I  call  very  bad  form,"  said  the  punc 
tilious  Van  Bibber,  "even  though  they  are  en 
gaged." 


66 


MY  DISREPUTABLE  FRIEND, 
MR.  RAEGEN 


My  Disreputable  Friend, 
Mr.  Raegen 

RAGS   RAEGEN  was   out   of  his   element. 
The   water  was  his   proper   element — the 
water  of  the   East   River  by  preference.     And 
when  it  came  to  "running  the  roofs,"  as  he  would 
have  himself  expressed  it,  he  was  "not  in  it." 

On  those  other  occasions  when  he  had  been  fol 
lowed  by  the  police,  he  had  raced  them  toward 
the  river  front  and  had  dived  boldly  in  from  the 
wharf,  leaving  them  staring  blankly  and  in  some 
alarm  as  to  his  safety.  Indeed,  three  different 
men  in  the  precinct,  who  did  not  know  of  young 
Raegen's  aquatic  prowess,  had  returned  to  the  sta 
tion-house  and  seriously  reported  him  to  the  ser 
geant  as  lost,  and  regretted  having  driven  a  citi 
zen  into  the  river,  where  he  had  been  unfortu 
nately  drowned.  It  was  even  told  how,  on  one 
occasion,  when  hotly  followed,  young  Raegen  had 
dived  off  Wakeman's  Slip,  at  East  Thirty-third 
Street,  and  had  then  swum  back  under  water  to 
the  landing-steps,  while  the  policeman  and  a  crowd 

69 


My  Disreputable  Friend 

of  stevedores  stood  watching  for  him  to  reappear 
where  he  had  sunk.  It  is  further  related  that  he 
had  then,  in  a  spirit  of  recklessness,  and  in  the 
possibility  of  the  policeman's  failing  to  recognize 
him,  pushed  his  way  through  the  crowd  from  the 
rear  and  plunged  in  to  rescue  the  supposedly 
drowned  man.  And  that  after  two  or  three  futile 
attempts  to  find  his  own  corpse,  he  had  climbed 
up  on  the  dock  and  told  the  officer  that  he  had 
touched  the  body  sticking  in  the  mud.  And,  as  a 
result  of  this  fiction,  the  river-police  dragged  the 
river-bed  around  Wakeman's  Slip  with  grappling 
irons  for  four  hours,  while  Rags  sat  on  the  wharf 
and  directed  their  movements. 

But  on  this  present  occasion  the  police  were 
standing  between  him  and  the  river,  and  so  cut 
off  his  escape  in  that  direction,  and  as  they  had 
seen  him  strike  McGonegal  and  had  seen  Mc- 
Gonegal  fall,  he  had  to  run  for  it  and  seek  refuge 
on  the  roofs.  What  made  it  worse  was  that  he 
was  not  in  his  own  hunting-grounds,  but  in  Mc- 
Gonegal's,  and  while  any  tenement  on  Cherry 
Street  would  have  given  him  shelter,  either  for 
love  of  him  or  fear  of  him,  these  of  Thirty-third 
Street  were  against  him  and  "all  that  Cherry 
Street  gang,"  while  "Pike"  McGonegal  was  their 
darling  and  their  hero.  And,  if  Rags  had  known 
it,  any  tenement  on  the  block  was  better  than 

70 


Mr.   Raegen 

Case's,  into  which  he  first  turned,  for  Case's  was 
empty  and  untenanted,  save  in  one  or  two  rooms, 
and  the  opportunities  for  dodging  from  one  to 
another  were  in  consequence  very  few.  But  he 
could  not  know  this,  and  so  he  plunged  into  the 
dark  hall-way  and  sprang  up  the  first  four  flights 
of  stairs,  three  steps  at  a  jump,  with  one  arm 
stretched  out  in  front  of  him,  for  it  was  very  dark 
and  the  turns  were  short.  On  the  fourth  floor 
he  fell  headlong  over  a  bucket  with  a  broom  stick 
ing  in  it,  and  cursed  whoever  left  it  there.  There 
was  a  ladder  leading  from  the  sixth  floor  to  the 
roof,  and  he  ran  up  this  and  drew  it  after  him  as 
he  fell  forward  out  of  the  wooden  trap  that 
opened  on  the  flat  tin  roof  like  a  companion-way 
of  a  ship.  The  chimneys  would  have  hidden  him, 
but  there  was  a  policeman's  helmet  coming  up 
from  another  companion-way,  and  he  saw  that  the 
Italians  hanging  out  of  the  windows  of  the  other 
tenements  were  pointing  at  him  and  showing  him 
to  the  officer.  So  he  hung  by  his  hands  and 
dropped  back  again.  It  was  not  much  of  a  fall, 
but  it  jarred  him,  and  the  race  he  had  already  run 
had  nearly  taken  his  breath  from  him.  For  Rags 
did  not  live  a  life  calculated  to  fit  young  men  for 
sudden  trials  of  speed. 

He  stumbled  back  down  the  narrow  stairs,  and, 
with  a  vivid  recollection  of  the  bucket  he  had  al- 


My  Disreputable  Friend 

ready  fallen  upon,  felt  his  way  cautiously  with  his 
hands  and  with  one  foot  stuck  out  in  front  of  him. 
If  he  had  been  in  his  own  bailiwick,  he  would 
have  rather  enjoyed  the  tense  excitement  of  the 
chase  than  otherwise,  for  there  he  was  at  home 
and  knew  all  the  cross-cuts  and  where  to  find  each 
broken  paling  in  the  roof-fences,  and  all  the  traps 
in  the  roofs.  But  here  he  was  running  in  a  maze, 
and  what  looked  like  a  safe  passage-way  might 
throw  him  head  on  into  the  outstretched  arms  of 
the  officers. 

And  while  he  felt  his  way  his  mind  was  terribly 
acute  to  the  fact  that  as  yet  no  door  on  any  of  the 
landings  had  been  thrown  open  to  him,  either  curi 
ously  or  hospitably  as  offering  a  place  of  refuge. 
He  did  not  want  to  be  taken,  but  in  spite  of  this 
he  was  qmtc  cool,  and  so,  when  he  heard  quick, 
heavy  footsteps  beating  up  the  stairs,  he  stopped 
himself  suddenly  by  placing  one  hand  on  the  side 
of  the  wall  and  the  other  on  the  banister  and 
halted,  panting.  He  could  distinguish  from  be 
low  the  high  voices  of  women  and  children  and 
excited  men  in  the  street,  and  as  the  steps  came 
nearer  he  heard  some  one  lowering  the  ladder  he 
had  thrown  upon  the  roof  to  the  sixth  floor  and 
preparing  to  descend.  "Ah !"  snarled  Raegen, 
panting  and  desperate,  "youse  think  you  have  me 
now,  sure,  don't  you?"  It  rather  frightened  him 

72 


Mr.   Raegen 

to  find  the  house  so  silent,  for,  save  the  footsteps 
of  the  officers,  descending  and  ascending  upon 
him,  he  seemed  to  be  the  only  living  person  in 
all  the  dark,  silent  building. 

He  did  not  want  to  fight. 

He  was  under  heavy  bonds  already  to  keep  the 
peace,  and  this  last  had  surely  been  in  self-de 
fence,  and  he  felt  he  could  prove  it.  What  he 
wanted  now  was  to  get  away,  to  get  back  to  his 
own  people  and  to  lie  hidden  in  his  own  cellar  or 
garret,  where  they  would  feed  and  guard  him  un 
til  the  trouble  was  over.  And  still,  like  the  two 
ends  of  a  vise,  the  representatives  of  the  law  were 
closing  in  upon  him.  He  turned  the  knob  of  the 
door  opening  to  the  landing  on  which  he  stood, 
and  tried  to  push  it  in,  but  it  was  locked.  Then 
he  stepped  quickly  to  the  door  on  the  opposite 
side  and  threw  his  shoulder  against  it.  The  door 
opened,  and  he  stumbled  forward  sprawling.  The 
room  in  which  he  had  taken  refuge  was  almost 
bare,  and  very  dark;  but  in  a  little  room  leading 
from  it  he  saw  a  pile  of  tossed-up  bedding  on  the 
floor,  and  he  dived  at  this  as  though  it  was  water, 
and  crawled  far  under  it  until  he  reached  the  wall 
beyond,  squirming  on  his  face  and  stomach,  and 
flattening  out  his  arms  and  legs.  Then  he  lay 
motionless,  holding  back  his  breath,  and  listening 
to  the  beating  of  his  heart  and  to  the  footsteps 

73 


My  Disreputable  Friend 

on  the  stairs.  The  footsteps  stopped  on  the  land 
ing  leading  to  the  outer  room,  and  he  could  hear 
the  murmur  of  voices  as  the  two  men  questioned 
one  another.  Then  the  door  was  kicked  open,  and 
there  was  a  long  silence,  broken  sharply  by  the 
click  of  a  revolver. 

"Maybe  he's  in  there,"  said  a  bass  voice.  The 
men  stamped  across  the  floor  leading  into  the  dark 
room  in  which  he  lay,  and  halted  at  the  entrance. 
They  did  not  stand  there  over  a  moment  before 
they  turned  and  moved  away  again;  but  to  Rae- 
gen,  lying  with  blood-vessels  choked,  and  with  his 
hand  pressed  across  his  mouth,  it  seemed  as  if  they 
had  been  contemplating  and  enjoying  his  agony  for 
over  an  hour.  "I  was  in  this  place  not  more  than 
twelve  hours  ago,"  said  one  of  them  easily.  "I 
come  in  to  take  a  couple  out  for  fighting.  They 
were  yelling  'murder'  and  'police,'  and  breaking 
things;  but  they  went  quiet  enough.  The  man 
is  a  stevedore,  I  guess,  and  him  and  his  wife  used 
to  get  drunk  regular  and  carry  on  up  here  every 
night  or  so.  They  got  thirty  days  on  the  Island." 

"Who's  taking  care  of  the  rooms?"  asked  the 
bass  voice.  The  first  voice  said  he  guessed  "no 
one  was,"  and  added:  "There  ain't  much  to  take 
care  of,  that  I  can  see."  "That's  so,"  assented 
the  bass  voice.  "Well,"  he  went  on  briskly,  "he's 
not  here;  but  he's  in  the  building,  sure,  for  he  put 

74 


Mr.   Raegen 

back  when  he  seen  me  coming  over  the  roof.  And 
he  didn't  pass  me,  neither,  I  know  that,  anyway," 
protested  the  bass  voice.  Then  the  bass  voice  said 
that  he  must  have  slipped  into  the  flat  below, 
and  added  something  that  Raegen  could  not  hear 
distinctly,  about  Schaffer  on  the  roof,  and  their 
having  him  safe  enough,  as  that  red-headed  cop 
from  the  Eighteenth  Precinct  was  watching  on 
the  street.  They  closed  the  door  behind  them, 
and  their  footsteps  clattered  down  the  stairs,  leav 
ing  the  big  house  silent  and  apparently  deserted. 
Young  Raegen  raised  his  head,  and  let  his  breath 
escape  with  a  great  gasp  of  relief,  as  when  he  had 
been  a  long  time  under  water,  and  cautiously 
rubbed  the  perspiration  out  of  his  eyes  and  from 
his  forehead.  It  had  been  a  cruelly  hot,  close 
afternoon,  and  the  stifling  burial  under  the  heavy 
bedding,  and  the  excitement,  had  left  him  fever 
ishly  hot  and  trembling.  It  was  already  growing 
dark  outside,  although  he  could  not  know  that 
until  he  lifted  the  quilts  an  inch  or  two  and  peered 
up  at  the  dirty  window-panes.  He  was  afraid  to 
rise,  as  yet,  and  flattened  himself  out  with  an  im 
patient  sigh,  as  he  gathered  the  bedding  over  his 
head  again  and  held  back  his  breath  to  listen. 
There  may  have  been  a  minute  or  more  of  abso 
lute  silence  in  which  he  lay  there,  and  then  his 
blood  froze  to  ice  in  his  veins,  his  breath  stopped, 

75 


My  Disreputable   Friend 

and  he  heard,  with  a  quick  gasp  of  terror,  the 
sound  of  something  crawling  toward  him  across 
the  floor  of  the  outer  room.  The  instinct  of  self- 
defence  moved  him  first  to  leap  to  his  feet,  and  to 
face  and  fight  it,  and  then  followed  as  quickly  a 
foolish  sense  of  safety  in  his  hiding-place;  and  he 
called  upon  his  greatest  strength,  and,  by  his  mere 
brute  will  alone,  forced  his  forehead  down  to  the 
bare  floor  and  lay  rigid,  though  his  nerves  jerked 
with  unknown,  unreasoning  fear.  And  still  he 
heard  the  sound  of  this  living  thing  coming  creep 
ing  toward  him  until  the  instinctive  terror  that 
shook  him  overcame  his  will,  and  he  threw  the 
bed-clothes  from  him  with  a  hoarse  cry,  and  sprang 
up  trembling  to  his  feet,  with  his  back  against  the 
wall,  and  with  his  arms  thrown  out  in  front  of 
him  wildly,  and  with  the  willingness  in  them  and 
the  power  in  them  to  do  murder. 

The  room  was  very  dark,  but  the  windows  of 
the  one  beyond  let  in  a  little  stream  of  light  across 
the  floor,  and  in  this  light  he  saw  moving  toward 
him  on  its  hands  and  knees  a  little  baby  who  smiled 
and  nodded  at  him  with  a  pleased  look  of  recog 
nition  and  kindly  welcome. 

The  fear  upon  Raegen  had  been  so  strong  and 
the  reaction  was  so  great  that  he  dropped  to  a 
sitting  posture  on  the  heap  of  bedding  and  laughed 
long  and  weakly,  and  still  with  a  feeling  in  his 

76 


He  sprang  up  trembling  to  his  teet. 


Mr.   Raegen 

heart  that  this  apparition  M    s  something  strangely 
unreal  and  menacing. 

But  the  baby  seemed  well  pleased  with  his  laugh 
ter,  and  stopped  to  throw  back  its  head  and  smile 
and  coo  and  laugh  gently  with  him  as  though  the 
joke  was  a  very  good  one  which  they  shared  in 
common.  Then  it  struggled  solemnly  to  its  feet 
and  came  pattering  toward  him  on  a  run,  with  both 
bare  arms  held  out,  and  with  a  look  of  such  con 
fidence  in  him,  and  welcome  in  its  face,  that  Rae 
gen  stretched  out  his  arms  and  closed  the  baby's 
fingers  fearfully  and  gently  in  his  own. 

He  had  never  seen  so  beautiful  a  child.  There 
was  dirt  enough  on  its  hands  and  face,  and  its 
torn  dress  was  soiled  with  streaks  of  coal  and 
ashes.  The  dust  of  the  floor  had  rubbed  into 
its  bare  knees,  but  the  face  was  like  no  other  face 
that  Rags  had  ever  seen.  And  then  it  looked  at 
him  as  though  it  trusted  him,  and  just  as  though 
they  had  known  each  other  at  some  time  long 
before,  but  the  eyes  of  the  baby  somehow  seemed 
to  hurt  him  so  that  he  had  to  turn  his  face  away, 
and  when  he  looked  again  it  was  with  a  strangely 
new  feeling  of  dissatisfaction  with  himself  and 
of  wishing  to  ask  pardon.  They  were  wonderful 
eyes,  black  and  rich,  and  with  a  deep  superiority 
of  knowledge  in  them,  a  knowledge  that  seemed 
to  be  above  the  knowledge  of  evil;  and  when  the 

77 


My  Disreputable  Friend 

baby  smiled  at  him,  the  eyes  smiled  too  with  con 
fidence  and  tenderness  in  them  that  in  some  way 
frightened  Rags  and  made  him  move  uncomfort 
ably.  "Did  you  know  that  youse  scared  me  so 
that  I  was  going  to  kill  you?"  whispered  Rags, 
apologetically,  as  he  carefully  held  the  baby  from 
him  at  arm's  length.  "Did  you?"  But  the  baby 
only  smiled  at  this  and  reached  out  its  hand  and 
stroked  Rag's  cheek  with  its  fingers.  There  was 
something  so  wonderfully  soft  and  sweet  in  this 
that  Rags  drew  the  baby  nearer  and  gave  a  quick, 
strange  gasp  of  pleasure  as  it  threw  its  arms 
around  his  neck  and  brought  the  face  up  close  to 
his  chin  and  hugged  him  tightly.  The  baby's 
arms  were  very  soft  and  plump,  and  its  cheek  and 
tangled  hair  were  warm  and  moist  with  perspira 
tion,  and  the  breath  that  fell  on  Raegen's  face 
was  sweeter  than  anything  he  had  ever  known. 
He  felt  wonderfully  and  for  some  reason  un 
comfortably  happy,  but  the  silence  was  oppres 
sive. 

"What's  your  name,  little  'un?"  said  Rags. 

The  baby  ran  its  arms  more  closely  around  Rae 
gen's  neck  and  did  not  speak,  unless  its  cooing  in 
Raegen's  ear  was  an  answer.  "What  did  you 
say  your  name  was?"  persisted  Raegen,  in  a  whis 
per.  The  baby  frowned  at  this  and  stopped  cooing 
long  enough  to  say:  "Marg'ret,"  mechanically  and 

78 


Mr.   Raegen 

without  apparently  associating  the  name  with  her 
self  or  anything  else.  "Margaret,  eh!"  said  Rae 
gen,  with  grave  consideration.  "It's  a  very  pretty 
name,"  he  added,  politely,  for  he  could  not  shake 
off  the  feeling  that  he  was  in  the  presence  of  a 
superior  being.  "An'  what  did  you  say  your  dad's 
name  was?"  asked  Raegen,  awkwardly.  But  this 
was  beyond  the  baby's  patience  or  knowledge,  and 
she  waived  the  question  aside  with  both  arms  and 
began  to  beat  a  tattoo  gently  with  her  two  closed 
fists  on  Raegen's  chin  and  throat.  "You're  mighty 
strong  now,  ain't  you?"  mocked  the  young  giant, 
laughing.  "Perhaps  you  don't  know,  Missie,"  he 
added,  gravely,  "that  your  dad  and  mar  are  doing 
time  on  the  Island,  and  you  won't  see  'em  again 
for  a  month."  No,  the  baby  did  not  know  this 
nor  care  apparently;  she  seemed  content  with  Rags 
and  with  his  company.  Sometimes  she  drew  away 
and  looked  at  him  long  and  dubiously,  and  this 
cut  Rags  to  the  heart,  and  he  felt  guilty,  and  un 
reasonably  anxious  until  she  smiled  reassuringly 
again  and  ran  back  into  his  arms,  nestling  her  face 
against  his  and  stroking  his  rough  chin  wonder- 
ingly  with  her  little  fingers. 

Rags  forgot  the  lateness  of  the  night  and  the 
darkness  that  fell  upon  the  room  in  the  interest 
of  this  strange  entertainment,  wrhich  was  so  much 
more  absorbing,  and  so  much  more  innocent  than 

79 


My  Disreputable  Friend 

any  other  he  had  ever  known.  He  almost  forgot 
the  fact  that  he  lay  in  hiding,  that  he  was  sur 
rounded  by  unfriendly  neighbors,  and  that  at  any 
moment  the  representatives  of  local  justice  might 
come  in  and  rudely  lead  him  away.  For  this  rea 
son  he  dared  not  make  a  light,  but  he  moved  his 
position  so  that  the  glare  from  an  electric  lamp 
on  the  street  outside  might  fall  across  the  baby's 
face,  as  it  lay  alternately  dozing  and  awakening, 
to  smile  up  at  him  in  the  bend  of  his  arm.  Once 
it  reached  inside  the  collar  of  his  shirt  and  pulled 
out  the  scapular  that  hung  around  his  neck,  and 
looked  at  it  so  long,  and  with  such  apparent  seri 
ousness,  that  Rags  was  confirmed  in  his  fear  that 
this  kindly  visitor  was  something  more  or  less  of 
a  superhuman  agent,  and  his  efforts  to  make  this 
supposition  coincide  with  the  fact  that  the  angel's 
parents  were  on  Blackwell's  Island,  proved  one  of 
the  severest  struggles  his  mind  had  ever  experi 
enced.  He  had  forgotten  to  feel  hungry,  and  the 
knowledge  that  he  was  acutely  so,  first  came  to 
him  with  the  thought  that  the  baby  must  obviously 
be  in  greatest  need  of  food  herself.  This  pained 
him  greatly,  and  he  laid  his  burden  down  upon 
the  bedding,  and  after  slipping  off  his  shoes,  tip 
toed  his  way  across  the  room  on  a  foraging  expe 
dition  after  something  she  could  eat.  There  was 
a  half  of  a  ham-bone,  and  a  half  loaf  of  hard 

80 


Mr.   Raegen 

bread  in  a  cupboard,  and  on  the  table  he  found 
a  bottle  quite  filled  with  wretched  whiskey.  That 
the  police  had  failed  to  see  the  baby  had  not  ap 
pealed  to  him  in  any  way,  but  that  they  should 
have  allowed  this  last  find  to  remain  unnoticed 
pleased  him  intensely,  not  because  it  now  fell  to 
him,  but  because  they  had  been  cheated  of  it.  It 
really  struck  him  as  so  humorous  that  he  stood 
laughing  silently  for  several  minutes,  slapping  his 
thigh  with  every  outward  exhibition  of  the  keen 
est  mirth.  But  when  he  found  that  the  room  and 
cupboard  were  bare  of  anything  else  that  might 
be  eaten  he  sobered  suddenly.  It  was  very  hot, 
and  though  the  windows  were  open,  the  perspira 
tion  stood  upon  his  face,  and  the  foul  close  air 
that  rose  from  the  court  and  street  below  made 
him  gasp  and  pant  for  breath.  He  dipped- a  wash 
rag  in  the  water  from  the  spigot  in  the  hall,  and 
filled  a  cup  with  it  and  bathed  the  baby's  face 
and  wrists.  She  woke  and  sipped  up  the  water 
from  the  cup  eagerly,  and  then  looked  up  at  him, 
as  if  to  ask  for  something  more.  Rags  soaked 
the  crusty  bread  in  the  water,  and  put  it  to  the 
baby's  lips,  but  after  nibbling  at  it  eagerly  she 
shook  her  head  and  looked  up  at  him  again  with 
such  reproachful  pleading  in  her  eyes,  that  Rags 
felt  her  silence  more  keenly  than  the  worst  abuse 
he  had  ever  received. 

81 


My  Disreputable  Friend 

It  hurt  him  so,  that  the  pain  brought  tears  to 
his  eyes. 

"Deary  girl,"  he  cried,  "I'd  give  you  anything 
you  could  think  of  if  I  had  it.  But  I  can't  get  it, 
see?  It  ain't  that  I  don't  want  to — good  Lord, 
little  'un,  you  don't  think  that,  do  you?" 

The  baby  smiled  at  this,  just  as  though  she  un 
derstood  him,  and  touched  his  face  as  if  to  com 
fort  him,  so  that  Rags  felt  that  same  exquisite 
content  again,  which  moved  him  so  strangely 
whenever  the  child  caressed  him,  and  which  left 
him  soberly  wondering.  Then  the  baby  crawled 
up  onto  his  lap  and  dropped  asleep,  while  Rags 
sat  motionless  and  fanned  her  with  a  folded  news 
paper,  stopping  every  now  and  then  to  pass  the 
damp  cloth  over  her  warm  face  and  arms.  It  was 
quite  late  now.  Outside  he  could  hear  the  neigh 
bors  laughing  and  talking  on  the  roofs,  and  when 
one  group  sang  hilariously  to  an  accordion,  he 
cursed  them  under  his  breath  for  noisy,  drunken 
fools,  and  in  his  anger  lest  they  should  disturb 
the  child  in  his  arms,  expressed  an  anxious  hope 
that  they  would  fall  off  and  break  their  useless 
necks.  It  grew  silent  and  much  cooler  as  the 
night  ran  out,  but  Rags  still  sat  immovable,  shiv 
ering  slightly  every  now  and  then  and  cautiously 
stretching  his  stiff  legs  and  body.  The  arm  that 
held  the  child  grew  stiff  and  numb  with  the  light 

82 


Mr.  Raegen 

burden,  but  he  took  a  fierce  pleasure  in  the  pain, 
and  became  hardened  to  it,  and  at  last  fell  into 
an  uneasy  slumber  from  which  he  awoke  to  pass 
his  hands  gently  over  the  soft  yielding  body,  and 
to  draw  it  slowly  and  closer  to  him.  And  then, 
from  very  weariness,  his  eyes  closed  and  his  head 
fell  back  heavily  against  the  wall,  and  the  man 
and  the  child  in  his  arms  slept  peacefully  in  the 
dark  corner  of  the  deserted  tenement. 

The  sun  rose  hissing  out  of  the  East  River,  a 
broad,  red  disc  of  heat.  It  swept  the  cross-streets 
of  the  city  as  pitilessly  as  the  search-light  of  a 
man-of-war  sweeps  the  ocean.  It  blazed  brazenly 
into  open  windows,  and  changed  beds  into  grid 
irons  on  which  the  sleepers  tossed  and  turned  and 
woke  unrefreshed  and  with  throats  dry  and 
parched.  Its  glare  awakened  Rags  into  a  startled 
belief  that  the  place  about  him  was  on  fire,  and 
he  stared  wildly  until  the  child  in  his  arms  brought 
him  back  to  the  knowledge  of  where  he  was.  He 
ached  in  every  joint  and  limb,  and  his  eyes  smarted 
with  the  dry  heat,  but  the  baby  concerned  him 
most,  for  she  was  breathing  with  hard,  long,  ir 
regular  gasps,  her  mouth  was  open  and  her  ab 
surdly  small  fists  were  clenched,  and  around  her 
closed  eyes  were  deep  blue  rings.  Rags  felt  a  cold 
rush  of  fear  and  uncertainty  come  over  him  as  he 
stared  about  him  helplessly  for  aid.  He  had  seen 

83 


My  Disreputable  Friend 

babies  look  like  this  before,  in  the  tenements;  they 
were  like  this  when  the  young  doctors  of  the 
Health  Board  climbed  to  the  roofs  to  see  them, 
and  they  were  like  this,  only  quiet  and  still,  when 
the  ambulance  came  clattering  up  the  narrow 
streets,  and  bore  them  away.  Rags  carried  the 
baby  into  the  outer  room,  where  the  sun  had  not 
yet  penetrated,  and  laid  her  down  gently  on  the 
coverlets;  then  he  let  the  water  in  the  sink  run 
until  it  was  fairly  cool,  and  with  this  bathed  the 
baby's  face  and  hands  and  feet,  and  lifted  a  cup 
of  the  water  to  her  open  lips.  She  woke  at  this 
and  smiled  again,  but  very  faintly,  and  when  she 
looked  at  him  he  felt  fearfully  sure  that  she  did 
not  know  him,  and  that  she  was  looking  through 
and  past  him  at  something  he  could  not  see. 

He  did  not  know  what  to  do,  and  he  wanted 
to  do  so  much.  Milk  was  the  only  thing  he  was 
quite  sure  babies  cared  for,  but  in  want  of  this 
he  made  a  mess  of  bits  of  the  dry  ham  and  crumbs 
of  bread,  moistened  with  the  raw  whiskey,  and 
put  it  to  her  lips  on  the  end  of  a  spoon.  The 
baby  tasted  this,  and  pushed  his  hand  away,  and 
then  looked  up  and  gave  a  feeble  cry,  and  seemed 
to  say,  as  plainly  as  a  grown  woman  could  have 
said  or  written,  "It  isn't  any  use,  Rags.  You  are 
very  good  to  me,  but,  indeed,  I  cannot  do  it. 
Don't  worry,  please;  I  don't  blame  you." 

84 


Mr.   Raegen 

"Great  Lord,"  gasped  Rags,  with  a  queer  chok 
ing  in  his  throat,  "but  ain't  she  got  grit.1'  Then 
he  bethought  him  of  the  people  who  he  still  be 
lieved  inhabited  the  rest  of  the  tenement,  and  he 
concluded  that  as  the  day  was  yet  so  early  they 
might  still  be  asleep,  and  that  while  they  slept, 
he  could  "lift" — as  he  mentally  described  the  act 
—whatever  they  might  have  laid  away  for  break 
fast.  Excited  with  this  hope,  he  ran  noiselessly 
down  the  stairs  in  his  bare  feet,  and  tried  the 
doors  of  the  different  landings.  But  each  he  found 
open  and  each  room  bare  and  deserted.  Then  it 
occurred  to  him  that  at  this  hour  he  might  even 
risk  a  sally  into  the  street.  He  had  money  with 
him,  and  the  milk-carts  and  bakers'  wagons  must 
be  passing  every  minute.  He  ran  back  to  get  the 
money  out  of  his  coat,  delighted  with  the  chance 
and  chiding  himself  for  not  having  dared  to  do  it 
sooner.  He  stood  over  the  baby  a  moment  before 
he  left  the  room,  and  flushed  like  a  girl  as  he 
stooped  and  kissed  one  of  the  bare  arms.  "I'm 
going  out  to  get  you  some  breakfast,"  he  said. 
"I  won't  be  gone  long,  but  if  I  should,"  he  added, 
as  he  paused  and  shrugged  his  shoulders,  "I'll 
send  the  sergeant  after  you  from  the  station-house. 
If  I  only  wasn't  under  bonds,"  he  muttered,  as 
he  slipped  down  the  stairs.  "If  it  wasn't  for  that 
they  couldn't  give  me  more'n  a  month  at  the  most, 

85 


My  Disreputable  Friend 

even  knowing  all  they  do  of  me.  It  was  only  a 
street  fight,  anyway,  and  there  was  some  there 
that  must  have  seen  him  pull  his  pistol."  He 
stopped  at  the  top  of  the  first  flight  of  stairs  and 
sat  down  to  wait.  He  could  see  below  the  top 
of  the  open  front  door,  the  pavement  and  a  part 
of  the  street  beyond,  and  when  he  heard  the  rattle 
of  an  approaching  cart  he  ran  on  down  and  then, 
with  an  oath,  turned  and  broke  up-stairs  again. 
He  had  seen  the  ward  detectives  standing  together 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street. 

"Wot  are  they  doing  out  a  bed  at  this  hour?" 
he  demanded  angrily.  "Don't  they  make  trouble 
enough  through  the  day,  without  prowling  around 
before  decent  people  are  up?  I  wonder,  now,  if 
they're  after  me."  He  dropped  on  his  knees  when 
he  reached  the  room  where  the  baby  lay,  and 
peered  cautiously  out  of  the  window  at  the  detec 
tives,  who  had  been  joined  by  two  other  men,  with 
whom  they  were  talking  earnestly.  Raegen  knew 
the  new-comers  for  two  of  McGonegal's  friends, 
and  concluded,  with  a  momentary  flush  of  pride 
and  self-importance,  that  the  detectives  were  forced 
to  be  up  at  this  early  hour  solely  on  his  account. 
But  this  was  followed  by  the  afterthought  that 
he  must  have  hurt  McGonegal  seriously,  and  that 
he  was  wanted  in  consequence  very  much.  This 
disturbed  him  most,  he  was  surprised  to  find,  be- 

86 


Mr.   Raegen 

cause  it  precluded  his  going  forth  in  search  of 
food.  "I  guess  I  can't  get  you  that  milk  I  was 
looking  for,"  he  said,  jocularly,  to  the  baby,  for 
the  excitement  elated  him.  "The  sun  outside  isn't 
good  for  me  health."  The  baby  settled  herself 
in  his  arms  and  slept  again,  which  sobered  Rags, 
for  he  argued  it  was  a  bad  sign,  and  his  own 
ravenous  appetite  warned  him  how  the  child  suf 
fered.  When  he  again  offered  her  the  mixture 
he  had  prepared  for  her,  she  took  it  eagerly,  and 
Rags  breathed  a  sigh  of  satisfaction.  Then  he 
ate  some  of  the  bread  and  ham  himself  and  swal 
lowed  half  the  whiskey,  and  stretched  out  beside 
the  child  and  fanned  her  while  she  slept.  It  was 
something  strangely  incomprehensible  to  Rags  that 
he  should  feel  so  keen  a  satisfaction  in  doing  even 
this  little  for  her,  but  he  gave  up  wondering,  and 
forgot  everything  else  in  watching  the  strange 
beauty  of  the  sleeping  baby  and  in  the  odd  feeling 
of  responsibility  and  self-respect  she  had  brought 
to  him. 

He  did  not  feel  it  coming  on,  or  he  would  have 
fought  against  it,  but  the  heat  of  the  day  and  the 
sleeplessness  of  the  night  before,  and  the  fumes 
of  the  whiskey  on  his  empty  stomach,  drew  him 
unconsciously  into  a  dull  stupor,  so  that  the  paper 
fan  slipped  from  his  hand,  and  he  sank  back  on 
the  bedding  into  a  heavy  sleep.  When  he  awoke 

87 


My  Disreputable  Friend 

it  was  nearly  dusk  and  past  six  o'clock,  as  he  knew 
by  the  newsboys  calling  the  sporting  extras  on  the 
street  below.  He  sprang  up,  cursing  himself,  and 
filled  with  bitter  remorse. 

"I'm  a  drunken  fool,  that's  what  I  am,"  said 
Rags,  savagely.  "I've  let  her  lie  here  all  day  in 
the  heat  with  no  one  to  watch  her."  Margaret 
was  breathing  so  softly  that  he  could  hardly  dis 
cern  any  life  at  all,  and  his  heart  almost  stopped 
with  fear.  He  picked  her  up  and  fanned  and 
patted  her  into  wakefulness  again  and  then  turned 
desperately  to  the  window  and  looked  down. 
There  was  no  one  he  knew  or  who  knew  him 
as  far  as  he  could  tell  on  the  street,  and  he 
determined  recklessly  to  risk  another  sortie  for 
food. 

"Why,  it's  been  near  two  days  that  child's  gone 
without  eating,"  he  said,  with  keen  self-reproach, 
"and  here  you've  let  her  suffer  to  save  yourself  a 
trip  to  the  Island.  You're  a  hulking  big  loafer, 
you  are,"  he  ran  on,  muttering,  "and  after  her 
coming  to  you  and  taking  notice  of  you  and  put 
ting  her  face  to  yours  like  an  angel."  He  slipped 
off  his  shoes  and  picked  his  way  cautiously  down 
the  stairs. 

As  he  reached  the  top  of  the  first  flight  a  news 
boy  passed,  calling  the  evening  papers,  and  shout 
ed  something  which  Rags  could  not  distinguish. 


Mr.   Raegen 

He  wished  he  could  get  a  copy  of  the  paper.  It 
might  tell  him,  he  thought,  something  about  him 
self.  The  boy  was  coming  nearer,  and  Rags 
stopped  and  leaned  forward  to  listen. 

"Extry!  Extry!"  shouted  the  newsboy,  run 
ning.  "Sun,  World,  and  Mail.  Full  account  of 
the  murder  of  Pike  McGonegal  by  Ragsey  Rae- 
gen." 

The  lights  in  the  street  seemed  to  flash  up  sud 
denly  and  grow  dim  again,  leaving  Rags  blind 
and  dizzy. 

"Stop,"  he  yelled,  "stop.  Murdered,  no,  by 
God,  no,"  he  cried,  staggering  half-way  down  the 
stairs;  "stop,  stop!"  But  no  one  heard  Rags,  and 
the  sound  of  his  own  voice  halted  him.  He 
sank  back  weak  and  sick  upon  the  top  step  of 
the  stairs  and  beat  his  hands  together  upon  his 
head. 

"It's  a  lie,  it's  a  lie,"  he  whispered,  thickly.  "I 
struck  him  in  self-defence,  s'help  me.  I  struck 
him  in  self-defence.  He  drove  me  to  it.  He 
pulled  his  gun  on  me.  I  done  it  in  self-defence." 

And  then  the  whole  appearance  of  the  young 
tough  changed,  and  the  terror  and  horror  that  had 
showed  on  his  face  turned  to  one  of  low  sharp 
ness  and  evil  cunning.  His  lips  drew  together 
tightly  and  he  breathed  quickly  through  his  nos 
trils,  while  his  fingers  locked  and  unlocked  around 

89 


My   Disreputable  Friend 

his  knees.  All  that  he  had  learned  on  the  streets 
and  wharves  and  roof-tops,  all  that  pitiable  ex 
perience  and  dangerous  knowledge  that  had  made 
him  a  leader  and  a  hero  among  the  thieves  and 
bullies  of  the  river-front  he  called  to  his  assist 
ance  now.  He  faced  the  fact  flatly  and  with  the 
cool  consideration  of  an  uninterested  counsellor. 
He  knew  that  the  history  of  his  life  was  written 
on  Police  Court  blotters  from  the  day  that  he  was 
ten  years  old,  and  with  pitiless  detail;  that  what 
friends  he  had  he  held  more  by  fear  than  by 
affection,  and  that  his  enemies,  who  were  many, 
only  wanted  just  such  a  chance  as  this  to  revenge 
injuries  long  suffered  and  bitterly  cherished,  and 
that  his  only  safety  lay  in  secret  and  instant  flight. 
The  ferries  were  watched,  of  course ;  he  knew  that 
the  depots,  too,  were  covered  by  the  men  whose 
only  duty  was  to  watch  the  coming  and  to  halt  the 
departing  criminal.  But  he  knew  of  one  old  man 
who  was  too  wise  to  ask  questions  and  who  would 
row  him  over  the  East  River  to  Astoria,  and  of 
another  on  the  west  side  whose  boat  was  always 
at  the  disposal  of  silent  wrhite-faced  young  men 
who  might  come  at  any  hour  of  the  night  or  morn 
ing,  and  whom  he  would  pilot  across  to  the  Jersey 
shore  and  keep  well  away  from  the  lights  of  the 
passing  ferries  and  the  green  lamp  of  the  police 
boat.  And  once  across,  he  had  only  to  change 

90 


Mr.   Raegen 

his  name  and  write  for  money  to  be  forwarded 
to  that  name,  and  turn  to  work  until  the  thing 
was  covered  up  and  forgotten.  He  rose  to  his 
feet  in  his  full  strength  again,  and  intensely  and 
agreeably  excited  with  the  danger,  and  possibly 
fatal  termination,  of  his  adventure,  and  then  there 
fell  upon  him,  with  the  suddenness  of  a  blow,  the 
remembrance  of  the  little  child  lying  on  the  dirty 
bedding  in  the  room  above. 

"I  can't  do  it,"  he  muttered  fiercely;  "I  can't 
do  it,"  he  cried,  as  if  he  argued  with  some  other 
presence.  "There's  a  rope  around  me  neck,  and 
the  chances  are  all  against  me;  it's  every  man  for 
himself  and  no  favor."  He  threw  his  arms  out 
before  him  as  if  to  push  the  thought  away  from 
him  and  ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair  and  over 
his  face.  All  of  his  old  self  rose  in  him  and 
mocked  him  for  a  weak  fool,  and  showed  him  just 
how  great  his  personal  danger  was,  and  so  he 
turned  and  dashed  forward  on  a  run,  not  only  to 
the  street,  but  as  if  to  escape  from  the  other  self 
that  held  him  back.  He  was  still  without  his 
shoes,  and  in  his  bare  feet,  and  he  stopped  as  he 
noticed  this  and  turned  to  go  up  stairs  for  them, 
and  then  he  pictured  to  himself  the  baby  lying 
as  he  had  left  her,  weakly  unconscious  and  with 
dark  rims  around  her  eyes,  and  he  asked  himself 
excitedly  what  he  would  do,  if,  on  his  return,  she 

91 


My  Disreputable  Friend 

should  wake  and  smile  and  reach  out  her  hands 
to  him. 

"I  don't  dare  go  back,"  he  said,  breathlessly. 
"I  don't  dare  do  it;  killing's  too  good  for  the 
likes  of  Pike  McGonegal,  but  I'm  not  fighting 
babies.  An'  maybe,  if  I  went  back,  maybe  I 
wouldn't  have  the  nerve  to  leave  her;  I  can't  do 
it,"  he  muttered,  "I  don't  dare  go  back."  But 
still  he  did  not  stir,  but  stood  motionless,  with 
one  hand  trembling  on  the  stair-rail  and  the  other 
clenched  beside  him,  and  so  fought  it  on  alone 
in  the  silence  of  the  empty  building. 

The  lights  in  the  stores  below  came  out  one 
by  one,  and  the  minutes  passed  into  half-hours, 
and  still  he  stood  there  with  the  noise  of  the  streets 
coming  up  to  him  below  speaking  of  escape  and 
of  a  long  life  of  ill-regulated  pleasures,  and  up 
above  him  the  baby  lay  in  the  darkness  and  reached 
out  her  hands  to  him  in  her  sleep. 

The  surly  old  sergeant  of  the  Twenty-first  Pre 
cinct  station-house  had  read  the  evening  papers 
through  for  the  third  time  and  was  dozing  in  the 
fierce  lights  of  the  gas-jet  over  the  high  desk  when 
a  young  man  with  a  white,  haggard  face  came  in 
from  the  street  with  a  baby  in  his  arms. 

"I  want  to  see  the  woman  thet  look  after  the 
station-house — quick,"  he  said. 

92 


Mr.   Raegen 

The  surly  old  sergeant  did  not  like  the  peremp 
tory  tone  of  the  young  man  nor  his  general  ap 
pearance,  for  he  had  no  hat,  nor  coat,  and  his  feet 
were  bare ;  so  he  said,  with  deliberate  dignity,  that 
the  char-woman  was  up-stairs  lying  down,  and 
what  did  the  young  man  want  with  her?  "This 
child,"  said  the  visitor,  in  a  queer  thick  voice, 
"she's  sick.  The  heat's  come  over  her,  and  she 
ain't  had  anything  to  eat  for  two  days,  an'  she's 
starving.  Ring  the  bell  for  the  matron,  will  yer, 
and  send  one  of  your  men  around  for  the  house 
surgeon."  The  sergeant  leaned  forward  comfort 
ably  on  his  elbows,  with  his  hands  under  his  chin 
so  that  the  gold  lace  on  his  cuffs  shone  effectively 
in  the  gaslight.  He  believed  he  had  a  sense  of 
humor  and  he  chose  this  unfortunate  moment  to 
exhibit  it. 

"Did  you  take  this  for  a  dispensary,  young 
man?"  he  asked;  "or,"  he  continued,  with  added 
facetiousness,  "a  foundling  hospital?" 

The  young  man  made  a  savage  spring  at  the 
barrier  in  front  of  the  high  desk.  "Damn  you," 
he  panted,  "ring  that  bell,  do  you  hear  me,  or 
I'll  pull  you  off  that  seat  and  twist  your  heart 
out." 

The  baby  cried  at  this  sudden  outburst,  and 
Rags  fell  back,  patting  it  with  his  hand  and  mut 
tering  between  his  closed  teeth.  The  sergeant 

93 


My   Disreputable  Friend 

called  to  the  men  of  the  reserve  squad  in  the 
reading-room  beyond,  and  to  humor  this  desper 
ate  visitor,  sounded  the  gong  for  the  janitress. 
The  reserve  squad  trooped  in  leisurely  with  the 
playing-cards  in  their  hands  and  with  their  pipes 
in  their  mouths. 

"This  man,"  growled  the  sergeant,  pointing 
with  the  end  of  his  cigar  to  Rags,  "is  either  drunk, 
or  crazy,  or  a  bit  of  both." 

The  char-woman  came  down  stairs  majestically, 
in  a  long,  loose  wrapper,  fanning  herself  with  a 
palm-leaf  fan,  but  when  she  saw  the  child,  her 
majesty  dropped  from  her  like  a  cloak,  and  she 
ran  toward  her  and  caught  the  baby  up  in  her 
arms.  "You  poor  little  thing,"  she  murmured, 
"and,  oh,  how  beautiful!"  Then  she  whirled 
about  on  the  men  of  the  reserve  squad:  "You, 
Conners,"  she  said,  "run  up  to  my  room  and  get 
the  milk  out  of  my  ice-chest;  and  Moore,  put  on 
your  coat  and  go  around  and  tell  the  surgeon  I 
want  to  see  him.  And  one  of  you  crack  some  ice 
up  fine  in  a  towel.  Take  it  out  of  the  cooler. 
Quick,  now." 

Raegen  came  up  to  her  fearfully.  "Is  she  very 
sick?"  he  begged;  "she  ain't  going  to  die,  is 
she?" 

"Of  course  not,"  said  the  woman,  promptly, 
94 


Mr.   Raegen 

"but  she's  down  with  the  heat,  and  she  hasn't  been 
properly  cared  for;  the  child  looks  half-starved. 
Are  you  her  father?"  she  asked,  sharply.  But 
Rags  did  not  speak,  for  at  the  moment  she  had 
answered  his  question  and  had  said  the  baby  would 
not  die,  he  had  reached  out  swiftly,  and  taken  the 
child  out  of  her  arms  and  held  it  hard  against 
his  breast,  as  though  he  had  lost  her  and  some 
one  had  been  just  giving  her  back  to  him. 

His  head  was  bending  over  hers,  and  so  he  did 
not  see  Wade  and  Heffner,  the  two  ward  detec 
tives,  as  they  came  in  from  the  street,  looking  hot, 
and  tired,  and  anxious.  They  gave  a  careless 
glance  at  the  group,  and  then  stopped  with  a  start, 
and  one  of  them  gave  a  long,  low  whistle. 

"Well,"  exclaimed  Wade,  with  a  gasp  of  sur 
prise  and  relief.  "So  Raegen,  you're  here,  after 
all,  are  you?  Well,  you  did  give  us  a  chase,  you 
did.  Who  took  you?" 

The  men  of  the  reserve  squad,  when  they  heard 
the  name  of  the  man  for  whom  the  whole  force 
had  been  looking  for  the  past  two  days,  shifted 
their  positions  slightly,  and  looked  curiously  at 
Rags,  and  the  woman  stopped  pouring  out  the 
milk  from  the  bottle  in  her  hand,  and  stared  at 
him  in  frank  astonishment.  Raegen  threw  back 
his  head  and  shoulders,  and  ran  his  eyes  coldly 

95 


My  Disreputable  Friend 

over  the  faces  of  the  semicircle  of  men  around 
him. 

"Who  took  me?"  he  began,  defiantly,  with  a 
swagger  of  braggadocio,  and  then,  as  though  it 
were  hardly  worth  while,  and  as  though  the  pres 
ence  of  the  baby  lifted  him  above  everything  else, 
he  stopped,  and  raised  her  until  her  cheek  touched 
his  own.  It  rested  there  a  moment,  while  Rag 
stood  silent. 

"Who  took  me?"  he  repeated,  quietly,  and 
without  lifting  his  eyes  from  the  baby's  face. 
"Nobody  took  me,"  he  said.  "I  gave  myself 
up." 

One  morning,  three  months  later,  when  Raegen 
had  stopped  his  ice-cart  in  front  of  my  door,  I 
asked  him  whether  at  any  time  he  had  ever  re 
gretted  what  he  had  done. 

"Well,  sir,"  he  said,  with  easy  superiority,  "see 
ing  that  I've  shook  the  gang,  and  that  the  Society's 
decided  her  folks  ain't  fit  to  take  care  of  her,  we 
can't  help  thinking  we  are  better  off,  see? 

"But,  as  for  my  ever  regretting  it,  why,  even 
when  things  was  at  the  worst,  when  the  case  was 
going  dead  against  me,  and  before  that  cop,  you 
remember,  swore  to  McGonegal's  drawing  the  pis 
tol,  and  when  I  used  to  sit  in  the  Tombs  expecting 
I'd  have  to  hang  for  it,  well,  even  then,  they  used 

96 


/ 


She'd  reach  out  her  hands  and  kiss  me. 


Mr.   Raegen 

to  bring  her  to  see  me  every  day,  and  when 
they'd  lift  her  up,  and  she'd  reach  out  her  hands 
and  kiss  me  through  the  bars,  why — they  could 
have  took  me  out  and  hung  me,  and  been  damned 
to  'em,  for  all  I'd  have  cared." 


97 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN 


The  Other  Woman 

YOUNG  LATIMER  stood  on  one  of  the 
lower  steps  of  the  hall  stairs,  leaning  with 
one  hand  on  the  broad  railing  and  smiling  down 
at  her.  She  had  followed  him  from  the  drawing- 
room  and  had  stopped  at  the  entrance,  drawing 
the  curtains  behind  her,  and  making,  unconscious 
ly,  a  dark  background  for  her  head  and  figure. 
He  thought  he  had  never  seen  her  look  more 
beautiful,  nor  that  cold,  fine  air  of  thorough 
breeding  about  her  which  was  her  greatest  beauty 
to  him,  more  strongly  in  evidence. 

"Well,  sir,"  she  said,  "why  don't  you  go?" 

Fie  shifted  his  position  slightly  and  leaned  more 
comfortably  upon  the  railing,  as  though  he  in 
tended  to  discuss  it  with  her  at  some  length. 

"How  can  I  go,"  he  said,  argumentatively, 
"with  you  standing  there — looking  like  that?" 

"I  really  believe,"  the  girl  said,  slowly,  "that 
he  is  afraid;  yes,  he  is  afraid.  And  you  always 
said,"  she  added,  turning  to  him,  "you  were  so 
brave." 

"Oh,  I  am  sure  I  never  said  that,"  exclaimed 
101 


The  Other  Woman 

the  young  man,  calmly.  "I  may  be  brave,  In  fact, 
I  am  quite  brave,  but  I  never  said  I  was.  Some 
one  must  have  told  you." 

"Yes,  he  is  afraid,"  she  said,  nodding  her  head 
to  the  tall  clock  across  the  hall,  "he  is  temporizing 
and  trying  to  save  time.  And  afraid  of  a  man, 
too,  and  such  a  good  man  who  would  not  hurt 
any  one." 

"You  know  a  bishop  is  always  a  very  difficult 
sort  of  a  person,"  he  said,  "and  when  he  happens 
to  be  your  father,  the  combination  is  just  a  bit 
awful.  Isn't  it  now?  And  especially  when  one 
means  to  ask  him  for  his  daughter.  You  know  it 
isn't  like  asking  him  to  let  one  smoke  in  his 
study." 

"If  I  loved  a  girl,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head 
and  smiling  up  at  him,  "I  wouldn't  be  afraid  of 
the  whole  world;  that's  what  they  say  in  books, 
isn't  it?  I  would  be  so  bold  and  happy." 

"Oh,  well,  I'm  bold  enough,"  said  the  young 
man,  easily;  "if  I  had  not  been,  I  never  would 
have  asked  you  to  marry  me;  and  I'm  happy 
enough — that's  because  I  did  ask  you.  But  what 
if  he  says  no,"  continued  the  youth;  "what  if  he 
says  he  has  greater  ambitions  for  you,  just  as  they 
say  in  books,  too.  What  will  you  do?  Will  you 
run  away  with  me?  I  can  borrow  a  coach  just  as 
they  used  to  do,  and  we  can  drive  off  through  the 

1 02 


The  Other  Woman 

Park  and  be  married,  and  come  back  and  ask  his 
blessing  on  our  knees — unless  he  should  overtake 
us  on  the  elevated." 

"That,"  said  the  girl,  decidedly,  "is  flippant, 
and  I'm  going  to  leave  you.  I  never  thought  to 
marry  a  man  who  would  be  frightened  at  the 
very  first.  I  am  greatly  disappointed." 

She  stepped  back  into  the  drawing-room  and 
pulled  the  curtains  to  behind  her,  and  then  opened 
them  again  and  whispered,  "Please  don't  be  long," 
and  disappeared.  He  waited,  smiling,  to  see  if 
she  would  make  another  appearance,  but  she  did 
not,  and  he  heard  her  touch  the  keys  of  the  piano 
at  the  other  end  of  the  drawing-room.  And  so, 
still  smiling  and  with  her  last  words  sounding  in 
his  ears,  he  walked  slowly  up  the  stairs  and 
knocked  at  the  door  of  the  bishop's  study.  The 
bishop's  room  was  not  ecclesiastic  in  its  character. 
It  looked  much  like  the  room  of  any  man  of  any 
calling  who  cared  for  his  books  and  to  have  pict 
ures  about  him,  and  copies  of  the  beautiful  things 
he  had  seen  on  his  travels.  There  were  pictures 
of  the  Virgin  and  the  Child,  but  they  were  those 
that  are  seen  in  almost  any  house,  and  there  were 
etchings  and  plaster  casts,  and  there  were  hun 
dreds  of  books,  and  dark  red  curtains,  and  an 
open  fire  that  lit  up  the  pots  of  brass  with  ferns 
in  them,  and  the  blue  and  white  plaques  on  the 

103 


The  Other  Woman 

top  of  the  bookcase.  The  bishop  sat  before  his 
writing-table,  with  one  hand  shading  his  eyes  from 
the  light  of  a  red-covered  lamp,  and  looked  up 
and  smiled  pleasantly  and  nodded  as  the  young 
man  entered.  He  had  a  very  strong  face,  with 
white  hair  hanging  at  the  side,  but  was  still  a 
young  man  for  one  in  such  a  high  office.  He 
was  a  man  interested  in  many  things,  who  could 
talk  to  men  of  any  profession  or  to  the  mere  man 
of  pleasure,  and  could  interest  them  in  what  he 
said,  and  force  their  respect  and  liking.  And  he 
was  very  good,  and  had,  they  said,  seen  much 
trouble. 

"I  am  afraid  I  interrupted  you,"  said  the  young 
man,  tentatively. 

"No,  I  have  interrupted  myself,"  replied  the 
bishop.  "I  don't  seem  to  make  this  clear  to  my 
self,"  he  said,  touching  the  paper  in  front  of  him, 
"and  so  I  very  much  doubt  if  I  am  going  to  make 
it  clear  to  any  one  else.  However,"  he  added, 
smiling,  as  he  pushed  the  manuscript  to  one  side, 
"we  are  not  going  to  talk  about  that  now.  What 
have  you  to  tell  me  that  is  new?" 

The  younger  man  glanced  up  quickly  at  this, 
but  the  bishop's  face  showed  that  his  words  had 
had  no  ulterior  meaning,  and  that  he  suspected 
nothing  more  serious  to  come  than  the  gossip  of 
the  clubs  or  a  report  of  the  local  political  fight 

104 


The  Other  Woman 

in  which  he  was  keenly  interested,  or  on  their  mis 
sion  on  the  East  Side.  But  it  seemed  an  oppor 
tunity  to  Latimer. 

"I  have  something  new  to  tell  you,"  he  said, 
gravely,  and  with  his  eyes  turned  toward  the  open 
fire,  "and  I  don't  know  how  to  do  it  exactly.  I 
mean  I  don't  just  know  how  it  is  generally  done 
or  how  to  tell  it  best."  He  hesitated  and  leaned 
forward,  with  his  hands  locked  in  front  of  him, 
and  his  elbows  resting  on  his  knees.  He  was  not 
in  the  least  frightened.  The  bishop  had  listened 
to  many  strange  stories,  to  many  confessions,  in 
this  same  study,  and  had  learned  to  take  them 
as  a  matter  of  course;  but  to-night  something  in 
the  manner  of  the  young  man  before  him  made 
him  stir  uneasily,  and  he  waited  for  him  to  dis 
close  the  object  of  his  visit  with  some  impatience. 

"I  will  suppose,  sir,"  said  young  Latimer,  final 
ly,  "that  you  know  me  rather  well — I  mean  you 
know  who  my  people  are,  and  what  I  am  doing 
here  in  New  York,  and  who  my  friends  are,  and 
what  my  work  amounts  to.  You  have  let  me  see 
a  great  deal  of  you,  and  I  have  appreciated  your 
doing  so  very  much;  to  so  young  a  man  as  myself 
it, has  been  a  great  compliment,  and  it  has  been 
of  great  benefit  to  me.  I  know  that  better  than 
any  one  else.  I  say  this  because  unless  you  had 
shown  me  this  confidence  it  would  have  been  al- 

105 


The  Other   Woman 

most  Impossible  for  me  to  say  to  y^ii  what  I  am 
going  to  say  now.  But  you  have  allowed  me  to 
come  here  frequently,  and  to  see  you  and  talk 
with  you  here  in  your  study,  and  to  see  even  more 
of  your  daughter.  Of  course,  sir,  you  did  not 
suppose  that  I  came  here  only  to  see  you.  I  came 
here  because  I  found  that  if  I  did  not  see  Miss 
Ellen  for  a  day,  that  that  day  was  wasted,  and 
that  I  spent  it  uneasily  and  discontentedly,  and  the 
necessity  of  seeing  her  even  more  frequently  has 
grown  so  great  that  I  cannot  come  here  as  often 
as  I  seem  to  want  to  come  unless  I  am  engaged 
to  her,  unless  I  come  as  her  husband  that  is  to  be." 
The  young  man  had  been  speaking  very  slowly 
and  picking  his  words,  but  now  he  raised  his  head 
and  ran  on  quickly. 

"I  have  spoken  to  her  and  told  her  how  I  love 
her,  and  she  has  told  me  that  she  loves  me,  and 
that  if  you  will  not  oppose  us,  will  marry  me. 
That  is  the  news  I  have  to  tell  you,  sir.  I  don't 
know  but  that  I  might  have  told  it  differently,  but 
that  is  it.  I  need  not  urge  on  you  my  position  and 
all  that,  because  I  do  not  think  that  weighs  with 
you;  but  I  do  tell  you  that  I  love  Ellen  so  dearly 
that,  though  I  am  not  worthy  of  her,  of  course, 
I  have  no  other  pleasure  than  to  give  her  pleasure 
and  to  try  to  make  her  happy.  I  have  the  power 
to  do  it;  but  what  is  much  more,  I  have  the  wish 

106 


The  Other   Woman 

to  do  it;  it  is  all  I  think  of  now,  and  all  that  I 
can  ever  think  of.  What  she  thinks  of  me  you 
must  ask  her;  but  what  she  is  to  me  neither  she 
can  tell  you  nor  do  I  believe  that  I  myself  could 
make  you  understand."  The  young  man's  face 
was  flushed  and  eager,  and  as  he  finished  speak 
ing  he  raised  his  head  and  watched  the  bishop's 
countenance  anxiously.  But  the  older  man's  face 
was  hidden  by  his  hand  as  he  leaned  with  his 
elbow  on  his  writing-table.  His  other  hand  was 
playing  with  a  pen,  and  when  he  began  to  speak, 
which  he  did  after  a  long  pause,  he  still  turned 
it  between  his  fingers  and  looked  down  at  it. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said,  as  softly  as  though  he 
were  speaking  to  himself,  "that  I  should  have 
known  this;  I  suppose  that  I  should  have  been 
better  prepared  to  hear  it.  But  it  is  one  of  those 
things  which  men  put  off — I  mean  those  men  who 
have  children,  put  off — as  they  do  making  their 
wills,  as  something  that  is  In  the  future  and  that 
may  be  shirked  until  it  comes.  We  seem  to  think 
that  our  daughters  will  live  with  us  always,  just 
as  we  expect  to  live  on  ourselves  until  death  comes 
one  day  and  startles  us  and  finds  us  unprepared." 
He  took  down  his  hand  and  smiled  gravely  at  the 
younger  man  with  an  evident  effort,  and  said,  "I 
did  not  mean  to  speak  so  gloomily,  but  you  see  my 
point  of  view  must  be  different  from  yours.  And 

107 


The  Other  Woman 

she  says  she  loves  you,  does  she?"  he  added, 
gently. 

Young  Latlmer  bowed  his  head  and  murmured 
something  inarticulately  in  reply,  and  then  held 
his  head  erect  again  and  waited,  still  watching  the 
bishop's  face. 

"I  think  she  might  have  told  me,"  said  the 
older  man;  "but  then  I  suppose  this  is  the  better 
way.  I  am  young  enough  to  understand  that  the 
old  order  changes,  that  the  customs  of  my  father's 
time  differ  from  those  of  to-day.  And  there  is  no 
alternative,  I  suppose,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head. 
"I  am  stopped  and  told  to  deliver,  and  have  no 
choice.  I  will  get  used  to  it  in  time,"  he  went 
on,  "but  it  seems  very  hard  now.  Fathers  are 
selfish,  I  imagine,  but  she  is  all  I  have." 

Young  Latimer  looked  gravely  into  the  fire  and 
wondered  how  long  it  would  last.  He  could  just 
hear  the  piano  from  below,  and  he  was  anxious 
to  return  to  her.  And  at  the  same  time  he  was 
drawn  toward  the  older  man  before  him,  and  felt 
rather  guilty,  as  though  he  really  were  robbing 
him.  But  at  the  bishop's  next  words  he  gave  up 
any  thought  of  a  speedy  release,  and  settled  him 
self  in  his  chair. 

"We  are  still  to  have  a  long  talk,"  said  the 
bishop.  "There  are  many  things  I  must  know, 
and  of  which  I  am  sure  you  will  inform  me  free- 

108 


The  Other  Woman 

ly.  I  believe  there  are  some  who  consider  me 
hard,  and  even  narrow  on  different  points,  but  I 
do  not  think  you  will  find  me  so,  at  least  let  us 
hope  not.  I  must  confess  that  for  a  moment  I 
almost  hoped  that  you  might  not  be  able  to  an 
swer  the  questions  I  must  ask  you,  but  it  was  only 
for  a  moment.  I  am  only  too  sure  you  will  not 
be  found  wanting,  and  that  the  conclusion  of  our 
talk  will  satisfy  us  both.  Yes,  I  am  confident  of 
that." 

His  manner  changed,  nevertheless,  and  Latimer 
saw  that  he  was  now  facing  a  judge  and  not  a 
plaintiff  who  had  been  robbed,  and  that  he  was 
in  turn  the  defendant.  And  still  he  was  in  no 
way  frightened. 

"I  like  you,"  the  bishop  said,  "I  like  you  very 
much.  As  you  say  yourself,  I  have  seen  a  great 
deal  of  you,  because  I  have  enjoyed  your  society, 
and  your  views  and  talk  were  good  and  young  and 
fresh,  and  did  me  good.  You  have  served  to  keep 
me  in  touch  with  the  outside  world,  a  world  of 
which  I  used  to  know  at  one  time  a  great  deal.  I 
know  your  people  and  I  know  you,  I  think,  and 
many  people  have  spoken  to  me  of  you.  I  see  why 
now.  They,  no  doubt,  understood  what  was  com 
ing  better  than  myself,  and  were  meaning  to  re 
assure  me  concerning  you.  And  they  said  nothing 
but  what  was  good  of  you.  But  there  are  certain 

109 


The  Other   Woman 

things  of  which  no  one  can  know  but  yourself, 
and  concerning  which  no  other  person,  save  my 
self,  has  a  right  to  question  you.  You  have  prom 
ised  very  fairly  for  my  daughter's  future;  you 
have  suggested  more  than  you  have  said,  but  I 
understood.  You  can  give  her  many  pleasures 
which  I  have  not  been  able  to  afford;  she  can  get 
from  you  the  means  of  seeing  more  of  this  world 
in  which  she  lives,  of  meeting  more  people,  and 
of  indulging  in  her  charities,  or  in  her  extrava 
gances,  for  that  matter,  as  she  wishes.  I  have 
no  fear  of  her  bodily  comfort;  her  life,  as  far  as 
that  is  concerned,  will  be  easier  and  broader,  and 
with  more  power  for  good.  Her  future,  as  I  say, 
as  you  say  also,  is  assured;  but  I  want  to  ask  you 
this,"  the  bishop  leaned  forward  and  watched  the 
young  man  anxiously,  "you  can  protect  her  in  the 
future,  but  can  you  assure  me  that  you  can  protect 
her  from  the  past?" 

Young  Latimer  raised  his  eyes  calmly  and  said, 
"I  don't  think  I  quite  understand." 

"I  have  perfect  confidence,  I  say,"  returned  the 
bishop,  "in  you  as  far  as  your  treatment  of  Ellen 
is  concerned  in  the  future.  You  love  her  and  you 
would  do  everything  to  make  the  life  of  the  woman 
you  love  a  happy  one;  but  this  is  it,  Can  you 
assure  me  that  there  is  nothing  in  the  past  that 
may  reach  forward  later  and  touch  my  daughter 

no 


The  Other  Woman 

through  you — no  ugly  story,  no  oats  that  have 
been  sowed,  and  no  boomerang  that  you  have 
thrown  wantonly  and  that  has  not  returned — but 
which  may  return?" 

"I  think  I  understand  you  now,  sir,"  said  the 
young  man,  quietly.  "I  have  lived,"  he  began, 
"as  other  men  of  my  sort  have  lived.  You  know 
what  that  is,  for  you  must  have  seen  it  about 
you  at  college,  and  after  that  before  you  entered 
the  Church.  I  judge  so  from  your  friends,  who 
were  your  friends  then,  I  understand.  You  know 
how  they  lived.  I  never  went  in  for  dissipation, 
if  you  mean  that,  because  it  never  attracted  me. 
I  am  afraid  I  kept  out  of  it  not  so  much  out  of 
respect  for  others  as  for  respect  for  myself.  I 
found  my  self-respect  was  a  very  good  thing  to 
keep,  and  I  rather  preferred  keeping  it  and  losing 
several  pleasures  that  other  men  managed  to  en 
joy,  apparently  with  free  consciences.  I  confess 
I  used  to  rather  envy  them.  It  is  no  particular 
virtue  on  my  part;  the  thing  struck  me  as  rather 
more  vulgar  than  wicked,  and  so  I  have  had  no 
wild  oats  to  speak  of;  and  no  woman,  if  that  is 
what  you  mean,  can  write  an  anonymous  letter, 
and  no  man  can  tell  you  a  story  about  me  that  he 
could  not  tell  in  my  presence." 

There  was  something  in  the  way  the  young  man 
spoke  which  would  have  amply  satisfied  the  out- 

iii 


sider,  had  he  been  present;  but  the  bishop's  eyes 
were  still  unrelaxed  and  anxious.  He  made  an 
impatient  motion  with  his  hand. 

"I  know  you  too  well,  I  hope,"  he  said,  "to 
think  of  doubting  your  attitude  in  that  particular. 
I  know  you  are  a  gentleman,  that  is  enough  for 
that;  but  there  is  something  beyond  these  more 
common  evils.  You  see,  I  am  terribly  in  earnest 
over  this — you  may  think  unjustly  so,  considering 
how  well  I  know  you,  but  this  child  is  my  only 
child.  If  her  mother  had  lived,  my  responsibility 
would  have  been  less  great;  but,  as  it  is,  God  has 
left  her  here  alone  to  me  in  my  hands.  I  do  not 
think  He  intended  my  duty  should  end  when  I  had 
fed  and  clothed  her,  and  taught  her  to  read  and 
write.  I  do  not  think  He  meant  that  I  should 
only  act  as  her  guardian  until  the  first  man  she 
fancied  fancied  her.  I  must  look  to  her  happiness 
not  only  now  when  she  is  with  me,  but  I  must 
assure  myself  of  it  when  she  leaves  my  roof.  These 
common  sins  of  youth  I  acquit  you  of.  Such  things 
are  beneath  you,  I  believe,  and  I  did  not  even  con 
sider  them.  But  there  are  other  toils  in  which 
men  become  involved,  other  evils  or  misfortunes 
which  exist,  and  which  threaten  all  men  who  are 
young  and  free  and  attractive  in  many  ways  to 
women,  as  well  as  men.  You  have  lived  the  life 
of  the  young  man  of  this  day.  You  have  reached 

112 


The  Other   Woman 

a  place  in  your  profession  when  you  can  afford 
to  rest  and  marry  and  assume  the  responsibilities 
of  marriage.  You  look  forward  to  a  life  of  con 
tent  and  peace  and  honorable  ambition — a  life, 
with  your  wife  at  your  side,  which  is  to  last  forty 
or  fifty  years.  You  consider  where  you  will  be 
twenty  years  from  now,  at  what  point  of  your 
career  you  may  become  a  judge  or  give  up  prac 
tice;  your  perspective  is  unlimited;  you  even  think 
of  the  college  to  which  you  may  send  your  son. 
It  is  a  long,  quiet  future  that  you  are  looking  for 
ward  to,  and  you  choose  my  daughter  as  the  com 
panion  for  that  future,  as  the  one  woman  with 
whom  you  could  live  content  for  that  length  of 
time.  And  it  is  in  that  spirit  that  you  come  to 
me  to-night  and  that  you  ask  me  for  my  daughter. 
Now  I  am  going  to  ask  you  one  question,  and  as 
you  answer  that  I  will  tell  you  whether  or  not 
you  can  have  Ellen  for  your  wife.  You  look  for 
ward,  as  I  say,  to  many  years  of  life,  and  you 
have  chosen  her  as  best  suited  to  live  that  period 
with  you;  but  I  ask  you  this,  and  I  demand  that 
you  answer  me  truthfully,  and  that  you  remem 
ber  that  you  are  speaking  to  her  father.  Imagine 
that  I  had  the  power  to  tell  you,  or  rather  that 
some  superhuman  agent  could  convince  you,  that 
you  had  but  a  month  to  live,  and  that  for  what 
you  did  in  that  month  you  would  not  be  held  re- 


The  Other  Woman 

sponsible  either  by  any  moral  law  or  any  law  made 
by  man,  and  that  your  life  hereafter  would  not  be 
influenced  by  your  conduct  in  that  month,  would 
you  spend  it,  I  ask  you — and  on  your  answer  de 
pends  mine — would  you  spend  those  thirty  days, 
with  death  at  the  end,  with  my  daughter,  or  with 
some  other  wroman  of  whom  I  know  nothing?" 

Latimer  sat  for  some  time  silent,  until  indeed, 
his  silence  assumed  such  a  significance  that  he 
raised  his  head  impatiently  and  said  with  a  mo 
tion  of  the  hand,  "I  mean  to  answer  you  in  a  min 
ute;  I  want  to  be  sure  that  I  understand." 

The  bishop  bowed  his  head  in  assent,  and  for 
a  still  longer  period  the  men  sat  motionless.  The 
clock  in  the  corner  seemed  to  tick  more  loudly, 
and  the  dead  coals  dropping  in  the  grate  had 
a  sharp,  aggressive  sound.  The  notes  of  the 
piano  that  had  risen  from  the  room  below  had 
ceased. 

"If  I  understand  you,"  said  Latimer,  finally, 
and  his  voice  and  his  face  as  he  raised  it  were  hard 
and  aggressive,  "you  are  stating  a  purely  hypo 
thetical  case.  You  wish  to  try  me  by  conditions 
which  do  not  exist,  which  cannot  exist.  What  jus 
tice  is  there,  what  right  is  there,  in  asking  me  to 
say  how  I  would  act  under  circumstances  which 
are  impossible,  which  lie  beyond  the  limit  of  hu 
man  experience?  You  cannot  judge  a  man  by 

114 


The  Other  Woman 

what  he  would  do  if  he  were  suddenly  robbed 
of  all  his  mental  and  moral  training  and  of  the 
habit  of  years.  I  am  not  admitting,  understand 
me,  that  if  the  conditions  which  you  suggest  did 
exist  that  I  would  do  one  whit  differently  from 
what  I  will  do  if  they  remain  as  they  are.  I  am 
merely  denying  your  right  to  put  such  a  question 
to  me  at  all.  You  might  just  as  well  judge  the 
shipwrecked  sailors  on  a  raft  who  eat  each  other's 
flesh  as  you  would  judge  a  sane,  healthy  man  who 
did  such  a  thing  in  his  own  home.  Are  you  going 
to  condemn  men  who  are  ice-locked  at  the  North 
Pole,  or  buried  in  the  heart  of  Africa,  and  who 
have  given  up  all  thought  of  return  and  are  half 
mad  and  wholly  without  hope,  as  you  would  judge 
ourselves?  Are  they  to  be  weighed  and  balanced 
as  you  and  I  are,  sitting  here  within  the  sound 
of  the  cabs  outside  and  with  a  bake-shop  around 
the  corner?  What  you  propose  could  not  exist, 
could  never  happen.  I  could  never  be  placed 
where  I  should  have  to  make  such  a  choice,  and 
you  have  no  right  to  ask  me  what  I  would  do  or 
how  I  would  act  under  conditions  that  are  super 
human — you  used  the  word  yourself — where  all 
that  I  have  held  to  be  good  and  just  and  true 
would  be  obliterated.  I  would  be  unworthy  of 
myself,  I  would  be  unworthy  of  your  daughter, 
if  I  considered  such  a  state  of  things  for  a  mo- 


The  Other  Woman 

ment,  or  if  I  placed  my  hopes  of  marrying  her 
on  the  outcome  of  such  a  test,  and  so,  sir,"  said  the 
young  man,  throwing  back  his  head,  "I  must  re 
fuse  to  answer  you." 

The  bishop  lowered  his  hand  from  before  his 
eyes  and  sank  back  wearily  into  his  chair.  "You 
have  answered  me,"  he  said. 

"You  have  no  right  to  say  that,"  cried  the  young 
man,  springing  to  his  feet.  "You  have  no  right 
to  suppose  anything  or  to  draw  any  conclusions. 
I  have  not  answered  you."  He  stood  with  his 
head  and  shoulders  thrown  back,  and  with  his 
hands  resting  on  his  hips  and  with  the  fingers 
working  nervously  at  his  waist. 

"What  you  have  said,"  replied  the  bishop,  in 
a  voice  that  had  changed  strangely,  and  which 
was  inexpressibly  sad  and  gentle,  "is  merely  a  cur 
tain  of  words  to  cover  up  your  true  feeling.  It 
would  have  been  so  easy  to  have  said,  'For  thirty 
days  or  for  life  Ellen  is  the  only  woman  who  has 
the  power  to  make  me  happy.'  You  see  that  would 
have  answered  me  and  satisfied  me.  But  you  did 
not  say  that,"  he  added,  quickly,  as  the  young 
man  made  a  movement  as  if  to  speak. 

"Well,  and  suppose  this  other  woman  did  exist, 
what  then?"  demanded  Latimer.  "The  condi 
tions  you  suggest  are  impossible;  you  must,  you 
will  surely,  sir,  admit  that." 

116 


The  Other  Woman 

"I  do  not  know,"  replied  the  bishop,  sadly;  "I 
do  not  know.  It  may  happen  that  whatever  ob 
stacle  there  has  been  which  has  kept  you  from 
her  may  be  removed.  It  may  be  that  she  has 
married,  it  may  be  that  she  has  fallen  so  low  that 
you  cannot  marry  her.  But  if  you  have  loved  her 
once,  you  may  love  her  again;  whatever  it  was 
that  separated  you  in  the  past,  that  separates  you 
now,  that  makes  you  prefer  my  daughter  to  her, 
may  come  to  an  end  when  you  are  married,  when 
it  will  be  too  late,  and  when  only  trouble  can  come 
of  it,  and  Ellen  would  bear  that  trouble.  Can  I 
risk  that?" 

"But  I  tell  you  it  is  impossible,"  cried  the  young 
man.  "The  woman  is  beyond  the  love  of  any 
man,  at  least  such  a  man  as  I  am,  or  try  to  be." 

"Do  you  mean,"  asked  the  bishop,  gently,  and 
with  an  eager  look  of  hope,  "that  she  is  dead?" 

Latimer  faced  the  father  for  some  seconds  in 
silence.  Then  he  raised  his  head  slowly.  "No," 
he  said,  "I  do  not  mean  she  is  dead.  No,  she  is 
not  dead." 

Again  the  bishop  moved  back  wearily  into  his 
chair.  "You  mean  then,"  he  said,  "perhaps,  that 
she  is  a  married  woman?"  Latimer  pressed  his 
lips  together  at  first  as  though  he  would  not  an 
swer,  and  then  raised  his  eyes  coldly.  "Perhaps," 
he  said. 

"7 


The  Other  Woman 

The  older  man  had  held  up  his  hand  as  if  to 
signify  that  what  he  was  about  to  say  should  be 
listened  to  without  interruption,  when  a  sharp  turn 
ing  of  the  lock  of  the  door  caused  both  father  and 
the  suitor  to  start.  Then  they  turned  and  looked 
at  each  other  with  anxious  inquiry  and  with  much 
concern,  for  they  recognized  for  the  first  time  that 
their  voices  had  been  loud.  The  older  man  stepped 
quickly  across  the  floor,  but  before  he  reached  the 
middle  of  the  room  the  door  opened  from  the  out 
side,  and  his  daughter  stood  in  the  door-way,  with 
her  head  held  down  and  her  eyes  looking  at  the 
floor. 

"Ellen !"  exclaimed  the  father,  in  a  voice  of 
pain  and  the  deepest  pity. 

The  girl  moved  toward  the  place  from  where 
his  voice  came,  without  raising  her  eyes,  and  when 
she  reached  him  put  her  arms  about  him  and  hid 
her  face  on  his  shoulder.  She  moved  as  though 
she  were  tired,  as  though  she  were  exhausted  by 
some  heavy  work. 

"My  child,"  said  the  bishop,  gently,  "were  you 
listening?"  There  was  no  reproach  in  his  voice; 
it  was  simply  full  of  pity  and  concern. 

"I  thought,"  whispered  the  girl,  brokenly,  "that 
he  would  be  frightened;  I  wanted  to  hear  what 
he  would  say.  T  thought  I  could  laugh  at  him 
for  it  afterward.  I  did  it  for  a  joke.  I  thought — " 

118 


The  Other  Woman 

she  stopped  with  a  little  gasping  sob  that  she  tried 
to  hide,  and  for  a  moment  held  herself  erect  and 
then  sank  back  again  into  her  father's  arms  with 
her  head  upon  his  breast. 

Latimer  started  forward,  holding  out  his  arms 
to  her.  "Ellen,"  he  said,  "surely,  Ellen,  you  are 
not  against  me.  You  see  how  preposterous  it  is, 
how  unjust  it  is  to  me.  You  cannot  mean — " 

The  girl  raised  her  head  and  shrugged  her 
shoulders  slightly  as  though  she  were  cold.  "Fa 
ther,"  she  said,  wearily,  "ask  him  to  go  away. 
Why  does  he  stay?  Ask  him  to  go  away." 

Latimer  stopped  and  took  a  step  back  as  though 
some  one  had  struck  him,  and  then  stood  silent 
with  his  face  flushed  and  his  eyes  flashing.  It 
was  not  in  answer  to  anything  that  they  said  that 
he  spoke,  but  to  their  attitude  and  what  it  sug 
gested.  "You  stand  there,"  he  began,  "you  two 
stand  there  as  though  I  were  something  unclean, 
as  though  I  had  committed  some  crime.  You  look 
at  me  as  though  I  were  on  trial  for  murder  or 
worse.  Both  of  you  together  against  me.  What 
have  I  done?  What  difference  is  there?  You 
loved  me  a  half-hour  ago,  Ellen;  you  said  you  did. 
I  know  you  loved  me;  and  you,  sir,"  he  added, 
more  quietly,  "treated  me  like  a  friend.  Has  any 
thing  come  since  then  to  change  me  or  you?  Be 
fair  to  me,  be  sensible.  What  is  the  use  of  this? 


The  Other  Woman 

It  Is  a  silly,  needless,  horrible  mistake.  You  know 
I  love  you,  Ellen;  love  you  better  than  all  the 
world.  I  don't  have  to  tell  you  that;  you  know 
it,  you  can  see  and  feel  it.  It  does  not  need  to 
be  said;  words  can't  make  it  any  truer.  You  have 
confused  yourselves  and  stultified  yourselves  with 
this  trick,  this  test  by  hypothetical  conditions,  by 
considering  what  is  not  real  or  possible.  It  is  sim 
ple  enough;  it  is  plain  enough.  You  know  I  love 
you,  Ellen,  and  you  only,  and  that  is  all  there  is 
to  it,  and  all  that  there  is  of  any  consequence  in 
the  world  to  me.  The  matter  stops  there;  that 
is  all  there  is  for  you  to  consider.  Answer  me, 
Ellen,  speak  to  me.  Tell  me  that  you  believe 
me." 

He  stopped  and  moved  a  step  toward  her,  but 
as  he  did  so,  the  girl,  still  without  looking  up, 
drew  herself  nearer  to  her  father  and  shrank  more 
closely  into  his  arms;  but  the  father's  face  was 
troubled  and  doubtful,  and  he  regarded  the  young 
er  man  with  a  look  of  the  most  anxious  scrutiny. 
Latimer  did  not  regard  this.  Their  hands  were 
raised  against  him  as  far  as  he  could  understand, 
and  he  broke  forth  again  proudly,  and  with  a  de 
fiant  indignation: 

"What  right  have  you  to  judge  me?"  he  began; 
"what  do  you  know  of  what  I  have  suffered,  and 
endured,  and  overcome?  How  can  you  know 

1 20 


The  Other   Woman 

what  I  have  had  to  give  up  and  put  away  from 
me?  It's  easy  enough  for  you  to  draw  your  skirts 
around  you,  but  what  can  a  woman  bred  as  you 
have  been  bred  know  of  what  I've  had  to  fight 
against  and  keep  under  and  cut  away?  It  was 
an  easy,  beautiful  idyl  to  you;  your  love  came  to 
you  only  when  it  should  have  come,  and  for  a 
man  who  was  good  and  worthy,  and  distinctly 
eligible — I  don't  mean  that;  forgive  me,  Ellen, 
but  you  drive  me  beside  myself.  But  he  is  good 
and  he  believes  himself  worthy,  and  I  say  that 
myself  before  you  both.  But  I  am  only  worthy 
and  only  good  because  of  that  other  love  that  I 
put  away  when  it  became  a  crime,  when  it  became 
impossible.  Do  you  know  what  it  cost  me?  Do 
you  know  what  it  meant  to  me,  and  what  I  went 
through,  and  how  I  suffered?  Do  you  know  who 
this  other  woman  is  whom  you  are  insulting  with 
your  doubts  and  guesses  in  the  dark?  Can't  you 
spare  her?  Am  I  not  enough?  Perhaps  it  was 
easy  for  her,  too;  perhaps  her  silence  cost  her  noth 
ing;  perhaps  she  did  not  suffer  and  has  nothing 
but  happiness  and  content  to  look  forward  to  for 
the  rest  of  her  life;  and  I  tell  you  that  it  is  because 
we  did  put  it  away,  and  kill  it,  and  not  give  way 
to  it  that  I  am  whatever  I  am  to-day;  whatever 
good  there  is  in  me  is  due  to  that  temptation  and 
to  the  fact  that  I  beat  it  and  overcame  it  and  kept 

121 


The  Other  Woman 

myself  honest  and  clean.  And  when  I  met  you 
and  learned  to  know  you  I  believed  in  my  heart 
that  God  had  sent  you  to  me  that  I  might  know 
what  it  was  to  love  a  woman  whom  I  could  marry 
and  who  could  be  my  wife;  that  you  were  the  re 
ward  for  my  having  overcome  temptation  and  the 
sign  that  I  had  done  well.  And  now  you  throw 
me  over  and  put  me  aside  as  though  I  were  some 
thing  low  and  unworthy,  because  of  this  tempta 
tion,  because  of  this  very  thing  that  has  made  me 
know  myself  and  my  own  strength  and  that  has 
kept  me  up  for  you." 

As  the  young  man  had  been  speaking,  the  bish 
op's  eyes  had  never  left  his  face,  and  as  he  finished, 
the  face  of  the  priest  grew  clearer  and  decided, 
and  calmly  exultant.  And  as  Latimer  ceased  he 
bent  his  head  above  his  daughter's,  and  said  in  a 
voice  that  seemed  to  speak  with  more  than  human 
inspiration.  "My  child,"  he  said,  "if  God  had 
given  me  a  son  I  should  have  been  proud  if 
he  could  have  spoken  as  this  young  man  has 
done." 

But  the  woman  only  said,  "Let  him  go  to 
her." 

"Ellen,  oh,  Ellen!"  cried  the  father. 

He  drew  back  from  the  girl  in  his  arms  and 
looked  anxiously  and  feelingly  at  her  lover.  "How 
could  you,  Ellen,"  he  said,  "how  could  you?"  He 

122 


The  Other  Woman 

was  watching  the  young  man's  face  with  eyes  full 
of  sympathy  and  concern.  "How  little  you  know 
him,"  he  said,  "how  little  you  understand.  He 
will  not  do  that,"  he  added  quickly,  but  looking 
questioningly  at  Latimer  and  speaking  in  a  tone 
almost  of  command.  "He  will  not  undo  all  that 
he  has  done;  I  know  him  better  than  that."  But 
Latimer  made  no  answer,  and  for  a  moment  the 
two  men  stood  watching  each  other  and  question 
ing  each  other  with  their  eyes.  Then  Latimer 
turned,  and  without  again  so  much  as  glancing  at 
the  girl  walked  steadily  to  the  door  and  left  the 
room.  He  passed  on  slowly  down  the  stairs  and 
out  into  the  night,  and  paused  upon  the  top  of  the 
steps  leading  to  the  street.  Below  him  lay  the 
avenue  with  its  double  line  of  lights  stretching  off 
in  two  long  perspectives.  The  lamps  of  hundreds 
of  cabs  and  carriages  flashed  as  they  advanced 
toward  him  and  shone  for  a  moment  at  the  turn 
ings  of  the  cross-streets,  and  from  either  side  came 
the  ceaseless  rush  and  murmur,  and  over  all  hung 
the  strange  mystery  that  covers  a  great  city  at 
night.  Latimer's  rooms  lay  to  the  south,  but  he 
stood  looking  toward  a  spot  to  the  north  with  a 
reckless,  harassed  look  in  his  face  that  had  not 
been  there  for  many  months.  He  stood  so  for  a 
minute,  and  then  gave  a  short  shrug  of  disgust  at 
his  momentary  doubt  and  ran  quickly  down  the 

123 


The  Other   Woman 

steps.  "No,"  he  said,  "if  it  were  for  a  month, 
yes;  but  it  is  to  be  for  many  years,  many  more 
long  years."  And  turning  his  back  resolutely  to 
the  north  he  went  slowly  home. 


124 


THE  TRAILER  FOR  ROOM 
NO.  8 


The  Trailer  for  Room 
No.  8 


»*T^HE  "trailer"  for  the  green-goods  men  who 
JL  rented  room  No.  8  in  Case's  tenement  had 
had  no  work  to  do  for  the  last  few  days,  and  was 
cursing  his  luck  in  consequence. 

He  was  entirely  too  young  to  curse,  but  he  had 
never  been  told  so,  and,  indeed,  so  imperfect  had 
his  training  been  that  he  had  never  been  told  not 
to  do  anything  as  long  as  it  pleased  him  to  do  it 
and  made  existence  any  more  bearable. 

He  had  been  told  when  he  was  very  young,  be 
fore  the  man  and  woman  who  had  brought  him 
into  the  world  had  separated,  not  to  crawl  out  on 
the  fire-escape,  because  he  might  break  his  neck, 
and  later,  after  his  father  had  walked  off  Hegel- 
man's  Slip  into  the  East  River  while  very  drunk, 
and  his  mother  had  been  sent  to  the  penitentiary 
for  grand  larceny,  he  had  been  told  not  to  let  the 
police  catch  him  sleeping  under  the  bridge. 

With  these  two  exceptions  he  had  been  told 
to  do  as  he  pleased,  which  was  the  very  mockery 

127 


The  Trailer  for  Room  No.  8 

of  advice,  as  he  was  just  about  as  well  able  to  do 
as  he  pleased  as  is  any  one  who  has  to  beg  or  steal 
what  he  eats  and  has  to  sleep  in  hall-ways  or  over 
the  iron  gratings  of  warm  cellars  and  has  the  offi 
cers  of  the  children's  societies  always  after  him  to 
put  him  in  a  "Home"  and  make  him  be  "good." 

"Snipes,"  as  the  trailer  was  called,  was  deter 
mined  no  one  should  ever  force  him  to  be  good  if 
he  could  possibly  prevent  it.  And  he  certainly 
did  do  a  great  deal  to  prevent  it.  He  knew  what 
having  to  be  good  meant.  Some  of  the  boys  who 
had  escaped  from  the  Home  had  told  him  all 
about  that.  It  meant  wearing  shoes  and  a  blue  and 
white  checkered  apron,  and  making  cane-bottomed 
chairs  all  day,  and  having  to  wash  yourself  in  a 
big  iron  tub  twice  a  week,  not  to  speak  of  having 
to  move  about  like  machines  whenever  the  lady 
teacher  hit  a  bell.  So  when  the  green-goods  men, 
of  whom  the  genial  Mr.  Alf  Wolfe  was  the  chief, 
asked  Snipes  to  act  as  "trailer"  for  them  at  a 
quarter  of  a  dollar  for  every  victim  he  shadowed, 
he  jumped  at  the  offer  and  was  proud  of  the  po 
sition. 

If  you  should  happen  to  keep  a  grocery  store 
in  the  country,  or  to  run  the  village  post-office, 
it  is  not  unlikely  that  you  know  what  a  green-goods 
man  is;  but  in  case  you  don't,  and  have  only  a 
vague  idea  as  to  how  he  lives,  a  paragraph  of  ex- 

128 


The  Trailer  for  Room  No.   8 

planation  must  be  inserted  here  for  your  particu 
lar  benefit.  Green  goods  is  the  technical  name  for 
counterfeit  bills,  and  the  green-goods  men  send 
out  circulars  to  countrymen  all  over  the  United 
States,  offering  to  sell  them  $5,000  worth  of  coun 
terfeit  money  for  $500,  and  ease  their  conscience 
by  explaining  to  them  that  by  purchasing  these 
green  goods  they  are  hurting  no  one  but  the  Gov 
ernment,  which  is  quite  able,  with  its  big  surplus, 
to  stand  the  loss.  They  enclose  a  letter  which  is 
to  serve  their  victim  as  a  mark  of  identification 
or  credential  when  he  comes  on  to  purchase. 

The  address  they  give  him  is  in  one  of  the 
many  drug-store  and  cigar-store  post-offices  which 
are  scattered  all  over  New  York,  and  which  con 
tribute  to  make  vice  and  crime  so  easy  that  the 
evil  they  do  cannot  be  reckoned  in  souls  lost  or 
dollars  stolen.  If  the  letter  from  the  countryman 
strikes  the  dealers  in  green  goods  as  sincere,  they 
appoint  an  interview  with  him  by  mail  in  rooms 
they  rent  for  the  purpose,  and  if  they,  on- meeting 
him  there,  think  he  is  still  in  earnest  and  not  a 
detective  or  officer  in  disguise,  they  appoint  still 
another  interview,  to  be  held  later  in  the  day  in 
the  back  room  of  some  saloon. 

Then  the  countryman  is  watched  throughout 
the  day  from  the  moment  he  leaves  the  first  meet 
ing-place  until  he  arrives  at  the  saloon.  If  any- 

129 


The  Trailer  for  Room   No.   8 

thing  in  his  conduct  during  that  time  leads  the 
man  whose  duty  it  is  to  follow  him,  or  the  "trail 
er,"  as  the  profession  call  it,  to  believe  he  is  a 
detective,  he  finds  when  he  arrives  at  the  saloon 
that  there  is  no  one  to  receive  him.  But  if  the 
trailer  regards  his  conduct  as  unsuspicious,  he  is 
taken  to  another  saloon,  not  the  one  just  appoint 
ed,  which  is,  perhaps,  a  most  respectable  place, 
but  to  the  thieves'  own  private  little  rendezvous, 
where  he  is  robbed  in  any  of  the  several  different 
ways  best  suited  to  their  purpose. 

Snipes  was  a  very  good  trailer.  He  was  so 
little  that  no  one  ever  noticed  him,  and  he  could 
keep  a  man  in  sight  no  matter  how  big  the  crowd 
was,  or  how  rapidly  it  changed  and  shifted.  And 
he  was  as  patient  as  he  was  quick,  and  would  wait 
for  hours  if  needful,  with  his  eye  on  a  door,  until 
his  man  reissued  into  the  street  again.  And  if  the 
one  he  shadowed  looked  behind  him  to  see  if  he 
was  followed,  or  dodged  up  and  down  different 
streets,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  throw  off  pursuit,  or 
despatched  a  note  or  telegram,  or  stopped  to  speak 
to  a  policeman  or  any  special  officer,  as  a  detective 
might,  who  thought  he  had  his  men  safely  in  hand, 
off  Snipes  would  go  on  a  run,  to  where  Alf  Wolfe 
was  waiting,  and  tell  what  he  had  seen. 

Then  Wolfe  would  give  him  a  quarter  or  more, 
and  the  trailer  would  go  back  to  his  post  opposite 

130 


The  Trailer  for  Room  No.   8 

Case's  tenement,  and  wait  for  another  victim  to 
issue  forth,  and  for  the  signal  from  No.  8  to  fol 
low  him.  It  was  not  much  fun,  and  "customers," 
as  Mr.  Wolfe  always  called  them,  had  been  scarce, 
and  Mr.  Wolfe,  in  consequence,  had  been  cross 
and  nasty  in  his  temper,  and  had  batted  Snipe  out 
of  the  way  on  more  than  one  occasion.  So  the 
trailer  was  feeling  blue  and  disconsolate,  and  won 
dered  how  it  was  that  "Naseby"  Raegen,  "Rags" 
Raegen's  younger  brother,  had  had  the  luck  to 
get  a  two  weeks'  visit  to  the  country  with  the 
Fresh  Air  Fund  children,  while  he  had  not. 

He  supposed  it  was  because  Naseby  had  sold 
papers,  and  wore  shoes,  and  went  to  night  school, 
and  did  many  other  things  equally  objectionable. 
Still,  what  Naseby  had  said  about  the  country,  and 
riding  horseback,  and  the  fishing,  and  the  shoot 
ing  crows  with  no  cops  to  stop  you,  and  water 
melons  for  nothing,  had  sounded  wonderfully  at 
tractive  and  quite  improbable,  except  that  it  was 
one  of  Naseby's  peculiarly  sneaking  ways  to  tell 
the  truth.  Anyway,  Naseby  had  left  Cherry 
Street  for  good,  and  had  gone  back  to  the  country 
to  work  there.  This  all  helped  to  make  Snipes 
morose,  and  it  was  with  a  cynical  smile  of  satis 
faction  that  he  watched  an  old  countryman  com 
ing  slowly  up  the  street,  and  asking  his  way  timid 
ly  of  the  Italians  to  Case's  tenement. 


The  Trailer  for  Room  No.   8 

The  countryman  looked  up  and  about  him  in 
evident  bewilderment  and  anxiety.  He  glanced 
hesitatingly  across  at  the  boy  leaning  against  the 
wall  of  a  saloon,  but  the  boy  was  watching  two 
sparrows  fighting  in  the  dirt  of  the  street,  and  did 
not  see  him.  At  least,  it  did  not  look  as  if  he 
saw  him.  Then  the  old  man  knocked  on  the  door 
of  Case's  tenement.  No  one  came,  for  the  people 
in  the  house  had  learned  to  leave  inquiring  country 
men  to  the  gentleman  who  rented  room  No.  8, 
and  as  that  gentleman  was  occupied  at  that  mo 
ment  with  a  younger  countryman,  he  allowed  the 
old  man,  whom  he  had  first  cautiously  observed 
from  the  top  of  the  stairs,  to  remain  where  he 
was. 

The  old  man  stood  uncertainly  on  the  stoop, 
and  then  removed  his  heavy  black  felt  hat  and 
rubbed  his  bald  head  and  the  white  shining  locks 
of  hair  around  it  with  a  red  bandanna  handker 
chief.  Then  he  walked  very  slowly  across  the 
street  toward  Snipes,  for  the  rest  of  the  street 
was  empty,  and  there  was  no  one  else  at  hand. 
The  old  man  was  dressed  in  heavy  black  broad 
cloth,  quaintly  cut,  with  boot  legs  showing  up 
under  the  trousers,  and  with  faultlessly  clean  linen 
of  home-made  manufacture. 

"I  can't  make  the  people  in  that  house  over 
there  hear  me,"  complained  the  old  man,  with  the 

132 


The  Trailer  for  Room  No.   8 

simple  confidence  that  old  age  has  in  very  young 
boys.  "Do  you  happen  to  know  if  they're  at 
home?" 

"Nop,"  growled  Snipes. 

"I'm  looking  for  a  man  named  Perceval,"  said 
the  stranger;  "he  lives  in  that  house,  and  I  wanter 
see  him  on  most  particular  business.  It  isn't  a 
very  pleasing  place  he  lives  in,  is  it — at  least," 
he  hurriedly  added,  as  if  fearful  of  giving  offence, 
"it  isn't  much  on  the  outside?  Do  you  happen 
to  know  him?" 

Perceval  was  Alf  Wolfe's  business  name. 

"Nop,"  said  the  trailer. 

"Well,  I'm  not  looking  for  him,"  explained  the 
stranger,  slowly,  "as  much  as  I'm  looking  for  a 
young  man  that  I  kind  of  suspect  is  been  to  see 
him  to-day :  a  young  man  that  looks  like  me,  only 
younger.  Has  lightish  hair  and  pretty  tall  and 
lanky,  and  carrying  a  shiny  black  bag  with  him. 
Did  you  happen  to  hev  noticed  him  going  into 
that  place  across  the  way?" 

"Nop,"  said  Snipes. 

The  old  man  sighed  and  nodded  his  head 
thoughtfully  at  Snipes,  and  puckered  up  the  cor 
ners  of  his  mouth,  as  though  he  were  thinking 
deeply.  He  had  wonderfully  honest  blue  eyes, 
and  with  the  white  hair  hanging  around  his  sun 
burned  face,  he  looked  like  an  old  saint.  But  the 

133 


The  Trailer  for  Room  No.   8 

trailer  didn't  know  that:  he  did  know,  though, 
that  this  man  was  a  different  sort  from  the  rest. 
Still,  that  was  none  of  his  business. 

"What  is't  you  want  to  see  him  about?"  he 
asked  sullenly,  while  he  looked  up  and  down  the 
street  and  everywhere  but  at  the  old  man,  and 
rubbed  one  bare  foot  slowly  over  the  other. 

The  old  man  looked  pained,  and  much  to  Snipe's 
surprise,  the  question  brought  the  tears  to  his  eyes, 
and  his  lips  trembled.  Then  he  swerved  slightly, 
so  that  he  might  have  fallen  if  Snipes  had  not 
caught  him  and  helped  him  across  the  pavement 
to  a  seat  on  a  stoop.  "Thankey,  son,"  said  the 
stranger;  "I'm  not  as  strong  as  I  was,  an'  the 
sun's  mighty  hot,  an'  these  streets  of  yours  smell 
mighty  bad,  and  I've  had  a  powerful  lot  of  trou 
ble  these  last  few  days.  But  if  I  could  see  this 
man  Perceval  before  my  boy  does,  I  know  I  could 
fix  it,  and  it  would  all  come  out  right." 

"What  do  you  want  to  see  him  about?"  repeat 
ed  the  trailer,  suspiciously,  while  he  fanned  the 
old  man  with  his  hat.  Snipes  could  not  have  told 
you  why  he  did  this  or  why  this  particular  old 
countryman  was  any  different  from  the  many  others 
who  came  to  buy  counterfeit  money  and  who  were 
thieves  at  heart  as  well  as  in  deed. 

"I  want  to  see  him  about  my  son,"  said  the  old 
man  to  the  little  boy.  "He's  a  bad  man  whoever 

134 


The  Trailer  for  Room  No.   8 

he  is.  This  'ere  Perceval  is  a  bad  man.  He  sends 
down  his  wickedness  to  the  country  and  tempts 
weak  folks  to  sin.  He  teaches  'em  ways  of  evil- 
doing  they  never  heard  of,  and  he's  ruined  my  son 
with  the  others — ruined  him.  I've  had  nothing 
to  do  with  the  city  and  its  ways;  we're  strict  living, 
simple  folks,  and  perhaps  we've  been  too  strict,  or 
Abraham  wouldn't  have  run  away  to  the  city.  But 
I  thought  it  was  best,  and  I  doubted  nothing  when 
the  fresh-air  children  came  to  the  farm.  I  didn't 
like  city  children,  but  I  let  'em  come.  I  took  'em 
in,  and  did  what  I  could  to  make  it  pleasant  for 
'em.  Poor  little  fellers,  all  as  thin  as  corn-stalks 
and  pale  as  ghosts,  and  as  dirty  as  you. 

"I  took  'em  in  and  let  'em  ride  the  horses,  and 
swim  in  the  river,  and  shoot  crows  in  the  cornfield, 
and  eat  all  the  cherries  they  could  pull,  and  what 
did  the  city  send  me  in  return  for  that?  It  sent 
me  this  thieving,  rascally  scheme  of  this  man  Per 
ceval's,  and  it  turned  my  boy's  head,  and  lost  him 
to  me.  I  saw  him  poring  over  the  note  and  read 
ing  it  as  if  it  were  Gospel,  and  I  suspected  notR- 
ing.  And  when  he  asked  me  if  he  could  keep  it, 
I  said  yes  he  could,  for  I  thought  he  wanted  it  for 
a  curiosity,  and  then  off  he  put  with  the  black 
bag  and  the  $200  he's  been  saving  up  to  start 
housekeeping  with  when  the  old  Deacon  says  he 
can  marry  his  daughter  Kate."  The  old  man 

135 


The  Trailer  for  Room   No.   8 

placed  both  hands  on  his  knees  and  went  on  ex 
citedly. 

"The  old  Deacon  says  he'll  not  let  'em  marry 
till  Abe  has  $2,000,  and  that  is  what  the  boy's 
come  after.  He  wants  to  buy  $2,000  worth  of 
bad  money  with  his  $200  worth  of  good  money, 
to  show  the  Deacon,  just  as  though  it  were  likely 
a  marriage  after  such  a  crime  as  that  would  ever 
be  'a  happy  one." 

Snipes  had  stopped  fanning  the  old  man,  as  he 
ran  on,  and  was  listening  intently,  with  an  uncom 
fortable  feeling  of  sympathy  and  sorrow,  uncom 
fortable  because  he  was  not  used  to  it. 

He  could  not  see  why  the  old  man  should  think 
the  city  should  have  treated  his  boy  better  because 
he  had  taken  care  of  the  city's  children,  and  he 
was  puzzled  between  his  allegiance  to  the  gang 
and  his  desire  to  help  the  gang's  innocent  victim, 
and  then  because  he  was  an  innocent  victim  and 
not  a  "  customer,"  he  let  his  sympathy  get  the 
better  of  his  discretion. 

"Saay,"  he  began,  abruptly,  "I'm  not  sayin' 
nothin'  to  nobody,  and  nobody's  sayin*  nothin'  to 
me — see?  but  I  guess  your  son'll  be  around  here 
to-day,  sure.  He's  got  to  come  before  one,  for 
this  office  closes  sharp  at  one,  and  we  goes  home. 
Now,  I've  got  the  call  whether  he  gets  his  stuff 
taken  off  him  or  whether  the  boys  leave  him  alone. 

136 


The  Trailer  for  Room  No.   8 

If  I  say  the  word,  they'd  no  more  come  near  him 
than  if  he  had  the  cholera — see?  An'  I'll  say  it 
for  this  oncet,  just  for  you.  Hold  on,"  he  com 
manded,  as  the  old  man  raised  his  voice  in  sur 
prised  interrogation,  "don't  ask  no  questions, 
'cause  you  won't  get  no  answers  except  lies.  You 
find  your  way  back  to  the  Grand  Central  Depot 
and  wait  there,  and  I'll  steer  your  son  down  to 
you,  sure,  as  soon  as  I  can  find  him — see?  Now 
get  along,  or  you'll  get  me  inter  trouble." 

"You've  been  lying  to  me,  then,"  cried  the  old 
man,  "and  you're  as  bad  as  any  of  them,  and  my 
boy's  over  in  that  house  now." 

He  scrambled  up  from  the  stoop,  and  before 
the  trailer  could  understand  what  he  proposed  to 
do,  had  dashed  across  the  street  and  up  the  stoop, 
and  up  the  stairs,  and  had  burst  into  room  No.  8. 

Snipes  tore  after  him.  "Come  back!  come  back 
out  of  that,  you  old  fool!"  he  cried.  "You'll  get 
killed  in  there!"  Snipes  was  afraid  to  enter  room 
No.  8,  but  he  could  hear  from  the  outside  the  old 
man  challenging  Alf  Wolfe  in  a  resonant  angry 
voice  that  rang  through  the  building. 

"Whew!"  said  Snipes,  crouching  on  the  stairs, 
"there's  goin'  to  be  a  muss  this  time,  sure !" 

"Where's  my  son?  Where  have  you  hidden 
my  son?"  demanded  the  old  man.  He  ran  across 
the  room  and  pulled  open  a  door  that  led  into 

137 


The  Trailer  for  Room  No.   8 

another  room,  but  it  was  empty.  He  had  fully 
expected  to  see  his  boy  murdered  and  quartered, 
and  with  his  pockets  inside  out.  He  turned  on 
Wolfe,  shaking  his  white  hair  like  a  mane.  "Give 
me  up  my  son,  you  rascal  you  1"  he  cried,  "or  I'll 
get  the  police,  and  I'll  tell  them  how  you  decoy 
honest  boys  to  your  den  and  murder  them." 

"Are  you  drunk  or  crazy,  or  just  a  little  of 
both?"  asked  Mr.  Wolfe.  "For  a  cent  I'd  throw 
you  out  of  that  window.  Get  out  of  here !  Quick, 
now !  You're  too  old  to  get  excited  like  that ;  it's 
not  good  for  you." 

But  this  only  exasperated  the  old  man  the  more, 
and  he  made  a  lunge  at  the  confidence  man's 
throat. 

Mr.  Wolfe  stepped  aside  and  caught  him 
around  the  waist  and  twisted  his  leg  around  the 
old  man's  rheumatic  one,  and  held  him.  "Now," 
said  Wolfe,  as  quietly  as  though  he  were  giving 
a  lesson  in  wrestling,  "if  I  wanted  to,  I  could 
break  your  back." 

The  old  man  glared  up  at  him,  panting.  "Your 
son's  not  here,"  said  Wolfe,  "and  this  is  a  private 
gentleman's  private  room.  I  could  turn  you  over 
to  the  police  for  assault  if  I  wanted  to;  but,"  he 
added,  magnanimously,  "I  won't.  Now  get  out 
of  here  and  go  home  to  your  wife,  and  when  you 
come  to  see  the  sights  again  don't  drink  so  much 


The  Trailer  for  Room  No.   8 

raw  whiskey."  He  half  carried  the  old  farmer 
to  the  top  of  the  stairs  and  dropped  him,  and 
went  back  and  closed  the  door.  Snipes  came  up 
and  helped  him  down  and  out,  and  the  old  man 
and  the  boy  walked  slowly  and  in  silence  out  to 
the  Bowery.  Snipes  helped  his  companion  into  a 
car  and  put  him  off  at  the  Grand  Central  Depot. 
The  heat  and  the  excitement  had  told  heavily  on 
the  old  man,  and  he  seemed  dazed  and  beaten. 

He  was  leaning  on  the  trailer's  shoulder  and 
waiting  for  his  turn  in  the  line  in  front  of  the 
ticket  window,  when  a  tall,  gawky,  good-looking 
country  lad  sprang  out  of  it  and  at  him  with  an 
expression  of  surprise  and  anxiety.  "Father,"  he 
said,  "father,  what's  wrong?  What  are  you  doing 
here?  Is  anybody  ill  at  home?  Are  you  ill?" 

"Abraham,"  said  the  old  man,  simply,  and 
dropped  heavily  on  the  younger  man's  shoulder. 
Then  he  raised  his  head  sternly  and  said:  "I 
thought  you  were  murdered,  but  better  that  than 
a  thief,  Abraham.  What  brought  you  here? 
What  did  you  do  with  that  rascal's  letter?  What 
did  you  do  with  his  money?" 

The  trailer  drew  cautiously  away;  the  conver 
sation  was  becoming  unpleasantly  personal. 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,"  said 
Abraham,  calmly.  "The  Deacon  gave  his  con 
sent  the  other  night  without  the  $2,000,  and  I  took 

139 


The  Trailer  for  Room   No.   8 

the  $200  I'd  saved  and  came  right  on  in  the  fust 
train  to  buy  the  ring.  It's  pretty,  isn't  it?"  he 
said,  flushing,  as  he  pulled  out  a  little  velvet  box 
and  opened  it. 

The  old  man  was  so  happy  at  this  that  he 
laughed  and  cried  alternately,  and  then  he  made 
a  grab  for  the  trailer  and  pulled  him  down  beside 
him  on  one  of  the  benches. 

"You've  got  to  come  with  me,"  he  said,  with 
kind  severity.  "You're  a  good  boy,  but  your  folks 
have  let  you  run  wrong.  You've  been  good  to 
me,  and  you  said  you  would  get  me  back  my  boy 
and  save  him  from  those  thieves,  and  I  believe 
now  that  you  meant  it.  Now  you're  just  coming 
back  with  us  to  the  farm  and  the  cows  and  the 
river,  and  you  can  eat  all  you  want  and  live  with 
us,  and  never,  never  see  this  unclean,  wicked  city 
again." 

Snipes  looked  up  keenly  from  under  the  rim 
of  his  hat  and  rubbed  one  of  his  muddy  feet  over 
the  other  as  was  his  habit.  The  young  country 
man,  greatly  puzzled,  and  the  older  man  smiling 
kindly,  waited  expectantly  in  silence.  From  out 
side  came  the  sound  of  the  car-bells  jangling,  and 
the  rattle  of  cabs,  and  the  cries  of  drivers,  and  all 
the  varying  rush  and  turmoil  of  a  great  metropo 
lis.  Green  fields,  and  running  rivers,  and  fruit 
that  did  not  grow  in  wooden  boxes  or  brown  paper 

140 


The  Trailer  for  Room  No.   8 

cones,  were  myths  and  idle  words  to  Snipes,  but 
this  "unclean,  wicked  city"  he  knew. 

"I  guess  you're  too  good  for  me,"  he  said,  with 
an  uneasy  laugh.  "I  guess  little  old  New  York's 
good  enough  for  me." 

"What!"  cried  the  old  man,  in  the  tones  of 
greatest  concern.  "You  would  go  back  to  that 
den  of  iniquity,  surely  not, — to  that  thief  Perce 
val?" 

"Well,"  said  the  trailer,  slowly,  "and  he's  not 
such  a  bad  lot,  neither.  You  see  he  could  hev 
broke  your  neck  that  time  when  you  was  choking 
him,  but  he  didn't.  There's  your  train,"  he  added 
hurriedly  and  jumping  away.  "Good-by.  So 
long,  old  man.  I'm  much  'bliged  to  you  jus'  for 
asking  me." 

Two  hours  later  the  farmer  and  his  son  were 
making  the  family  weep  and  laugh  over  their  ad 
ventures,  as  they  all  sat  together  on  the  porch  with 
the  vines  about  it;  and  the  trailer  was  leaning 
against  the  wall  of  a  saloon  and  apparently  count 
ing  his  ten  toes,  but  in  reality  watching  for  Mr. 
Wolfe  to  give  the  signal  from  the  window  of 
room  No.  8. 


141 


"  THERE  WERE  NINETY  AND 

NINE" 


"There  were  Ninety  and 
Nine" 

YOUNG  HARRINGFORD,  or  the  "Good 
wood  Plunger,"  as  he  was  perhaps  better 
known  at  that  time,  had  come  to  Monte  Carlo 
in  a  very  different  spirit  and  in  a  very  different 
state  of  mind  from  any  in  which  he  had  ever  vis 
ited  the  place  before.  He  had  come  there  for  the 
same  reason  that  a  wounded  lion,  or  a  poisoned 
rat,  for  that  matter,  crawls  away  into  a  corner,  that 
it  may  be  alone  when  it  dies.  He  stood  leaning 
against  one  of  the  pillars  of  the  Casino  with  his 
back  to  the  moonlight,  and  with  his  eyes  blinking 
painfully  at  the  flaming  lamps  above  the  green 
tables  inside.  He  knew  they  would  be  put  out 
very  soon;  and  as  he  had  something  to  do  then, 
he  regarded  them  fixedly  with  painful  earnestness, 
as  a  man  who  is  condemned  to  die  at  sunrise 
watches  through  his  barred  windows  for  the  first 
gray  light  of  the  morning. 

That  queer,  numb  feeling  in  his  head  and  the 
sharp  line  of  pain  between  his  eyebrows  which  had 

145 


"  There  were    Ninety  and    Nine " 

been  growing  worse  for  the  last  three  weeks,  was 
troubling  him  more  terribly  than  ever  before,  and 
his  nerves  had  thrown  off  all  control  and  rioted  at 
the  base  of  his  head  and  at  his  wrists,  and  jerked 
and  twitched  as  though,  so  it  seemed  to  him,  they 
were  striving  to  pull  the  tired  body  into  pieces  and 
to  set  themselves  free.  He  was  wondering  whether 
if  he  should  take  his  hand  from  his  pocket  and 
touch  his  head  he  would  find  that  it  had  grown 
longer,  and  had  turned  into  a  soft,  spongy  mass 
which  would  give  beneath  his  fingers.  He  consid 
ered  this  for  some  time,  and  even  went  so  far  as 
to  half  withdraw  one  hand,  but  thought  better  of 
it  and  shoved  it  back  again  as  he  considered  how 
much  less  terrible  it  was  to  remain  in  doubt  than 
to  find  that  this  phenomenon  had  actually  taken 
place. 

The  pity  of  the  whole  situation  was,  that  the 
boy  was  only  a  boy  with  all  his  man's  miserable 
knowledge  of  the  world,  and  the  reason  of  it  all 
was,  that  he  had  entirely  too  much  heart  and  not 
enough  money  to  make  an  unsuccessful  gambler. 
If  he  had  only  been  able  to  lose  his  conscience  in 
stead  of  his  money,  or  even  if  he  had  kept  his 
conscience  and  won,  it  is  not  likely  that  he  would 
have  been  waiting  for  the  lights  to  go  out  at 
Monte  Carlo.  But  he  had  not  only  lost  all  of  his 
money  and  more  besides,  which  he  could  never 

146 


"  There  were    Ninety  and    Nine " 

make  up,  but  he  had  lost  other  things  which  meant 
much  more  to  him  now  than  money,  and  which 
could  not  be  made  up  or  paid  back  at  even  usuri 
ous  interest.  He  had  not  only  lost  the  right  to 
sit  at  his  father's  table,  but  the  right  to  think  of 
the  girl  whose  place  in  Surrey  ran  next  to  that  of 
his  own  people,  and  whose  lighted  window  in  the 
north  wing  he  had  watched  on  those  many  dreary 
nights  when  she  had  been  ill,  from  his  own  terrace 
across  the  trees  in  the  park.  And  all  he  had  gained 
was  the  notoriety  that  made  him  a  by-word  with 
decent  people,  and  the  hero  of  the  race-tracks  and 
the  music-halls.  He  was  no  longer  "Young  Har- 
ringford,  the  eldest  son  of  the  Harringfords  of 
Surrey,"  but  the  "Goodwood  Plunger,"  to  whom 
Fortune  had  made  desperate  love  and  had  then 
jilted,  and  mocked,  and  overthrown. 

As  he  looked  back  at  it  now  and  remembered 
himself  as  he  was  then,  it  seemed  as  though  he 
was  considering  an  entirely  distinct  and  separate 
personage — a  boy  of  whom  he  liked  to  think,  who 
had  had  strong,  healthy  ambitions  and  gentle 
tastes.  He  reviewed  it  passionlessly  as  he  stood 
staring  at  the  lights  inside  the  Casino,  as  clearly 
as  he  was  capable  of  doing  in  his  present  state 
and  with  miserable  interest.  How  he  had  laughed 
when  young  Norton  told  him  in  boyish  confidence 
that  there  was  a  horse  named  Siren  in  his  father's 

147 


cc There  were    Ninety  and    Nine" 

stables  which  would  win  the  Goodwood  Cup ;  how, 
having  gone  down  to  see  Norton's  people  when 
the  long  vacation  began,  he  had  seen  Siren  daily, 
and  had  talked  of  her  until  two  every  morning 
in  the  smoking-room,  and  had  then  staid  up  two 
hours  later  to  watch  her  take  her  trial  spin  over 
the  downs.  He  remembered  how  they  used  to 
stamp  back  over  the  long  grass  wet  with  dew,  com 
paring  watches  and  talking  of  the  time  in  whis 
pers,  and  said  good  night  as  the  sun  broke  over 
the  trees  in  the  park.  And  then  just  at  this  time 
of  all  others,  when  the  horse  was  the  only  interest 
of  those  around  him,  from  Lord  Norton  and  his 
whole  household  down  to  the  youngest  stable-boy 
and  oldest  gaffer  in  the  village,  he  had  come  into 
his  money. 

And  then  began  the  then  and  still  inexplicable 
plunge  into  gambling,  and  the  wagering  of  greater 
sums  than  the  owner  of  Siren  dared  to  risk  him 
self,  the  secret  backing  of  the  horse  through  com 
missioners  all  over  England,  until  the  boy  by  his 
single  fortune  had  brought  the  odds  against  her 
from  60  to  o  down  to  6  to  o.  He  recalled,  with 
a  thrill  that  seemed  to  settle  his  nerves  for  the 
moment,  the  little  black  specks  at  the  starting-post 
and  the  larger  specks  as  the  horses  turned  the  first 
corner.  The  rest  of  the  people  on  the  coach  were 
making  a  great  deal  of  noise,  he  remembered,  but 

148 


<c  There  were    Ninety  and    Nine " 

he,  who  had  more  to  lose  than  any  one  or  all  of 
them  together,  had  stood  quite  still  with  his  feet 
on  the  wheel  and  his  back  against  the  box-seat,  and 
with  his  hands  sunk  into  his  pockets  and  the  nails 
cutting  through  his  gloves.  The  specks  grew  into 
horses  \vith  bits  of  color  on  them,  and  then  the 
deep  muttering  roar  of  the  crowd  merged  into  one 
great  shout,  and  swelled  and  grew  into  sharper, 
quicker,  impatient  cries,  as  the  horses  turned  into 
the  stretch  with  only  their  heads  showing  toward 
the  goal.  Some  of  the  people  were  shouting 
"Firefly!"  and  others  were  calling  on  "Vixen!" 
and  others,  who  had  their  glasses  up,  cried  "Trou 
ble  leads!"  but  he  only  waited  until  he  could  dis 
tinguish  the  Norton  colors,  with  his  lips  pressed 
tightly  together.  Then  they  came  so  close  that 
their  hoofs  echoed  as  loudly  as  when  horses  gal 
lop  over  a  bridge,  and  from  among  the  leaders 
Siren's  beautiful  head  and  shoulders  showed  like 
sealskin  in  the  sun,  and  the  boy  on  her  back  leaned 
forward  and  touched  her  gently  with  his  hand, 
as  they  had  so  often  seen  him  do  on  the  downs, 
and  Siren,  as  though  he  had  touched  a  spring, 
leaped  forward  with  her  head  shooting  back  and 
out,  like  a  piston-rod  that  has  broken  loose  from 
its  fastening  and  beats  the  air,  while  the  jockey 
sat  motionless,  with  his  right  arm  hanging  at  his 
side  as  limply  as  though  it  were  broken,  and  with 

149 


"  There  were    Ninety  and    Nine " 

his  left  moving  forward  and  back  in  time  with  the 
desperate  strokes  of  the  horse's  head. 

"Siren  wins!"  cried  Lord  Norton,  with  a  grim 
smile,  and  "Siren!"  the  mob  shouted  back  with 
wonder  and  angry  disappointment,  and  "Siren!" 
the  hills  echoed  from  far  across  the  course.  Young 
Harringford  felt  as  if  he  had  suddenly  been  lifted 
into  heaven  after  three  months  of  purgatory,  and 
smiled  uncertainly  at  the  excited  people  on  the 
coach  about  him.  It  made  him  smile  even  now 
when  he  recalled  young  Norton's  flushed  face  and 
the  awe  and  reproach  in  his  voice  when  he  climbed 
up  and  whispered,  "Why,  Cecil,  they  say  in  the 
ring  you've  won  a  fortune,  and  you  never  told 
us."  And  how  Griffith,  the  biggest  of  the  book 
makers,  with  the  rest  of  them  at  his  back,  came 
up  to  him  and  touched  his  hat  resentfully,  and 
said,  "You'll  have  to  give  us  time,  sir;  I'm  very 
hard  hit";  and  how  the  crowd  stood  about  him 
and  looked  at  him  curiously,  and  the  Certain  Royal 
Personage  turned  and  said,  "Who — not  that  boy, 
surely?"  Then  how,  on  the  day  following,  the 
papers  told  of  the  young  gentleman  who  of  all 
others  had  won  a  fortune,  thousands  and  thousands 
of  pounds  they  said,  getting  back  sixty  for  every 
one  he  had  ventured;  and  pictured  him  in  baby 
clothes  with  the  cup  in  his  arms,  or  in  an  Eton 
jacket;  and  how  all  of  them  spoke  of  him 

150 


"There  were    Ninety  and    Nine" 

slightingly,  or  admiringly,  as  the  "Goodwood 
Plunger." 

He  did  not  care  to  go  on  after  that;  to  recall 
the  mortification  of  his  father,  whose  pride  was 
hurt  and  whose  hopes  were  dashed  by  this  sudden, 
mad  freak  of  fortune,  nor  how  he  railed  at  it  and 
provoked  him  until  the  boy  rebelled  and  went  back 
to  the  courses,  where  he  was  a  celebrity  and  a 
king. 

The  rest  is  a  very  common  story.  Fortune  and 
greater  fortune  at  first;  days  in  which  he  could  not 
lose,  days  in  which  he  drove  back  to  the  crowded 
inns  choked  with  dust,  sunburnt  and  fagged  with 
excitement,  to  a  riotous  supper  and  baccarat,  and 
afterward  went  to  sleep  only  to  see  cards  and 
horses  and  moving  crowds  and  clouds  of  dust;  days 
spent  in  a  short  covert  coat,  with  a  field-glass  over 
his  shoulder  and  with  a  pasteboard  ticket  dangling 
from  his  buttonhole;  and  then  came  the  change 
that  brought  conscience  up  again,  and  the  visits 
to  the  Jews,  and  the  slights  of  the  men  who  had 
never  been  his  friends,  but  whom  he  had  thought 
had  at  least  liked  him  for  himself,  even  if  he  did 
not  like  them;  and  then  debts,  and  more  debts, 
and  the  borrowing  of  money  to  pay  here  and  there, 
and  threats  of  executions;  and,  with  it  ill,  the 
longing  for  the  fields  and  trout  springs  of  Surrey 
and  the  walk  across  the  park  to  where  she  lived. 


<c  There  were    Ninety  and    Nine " 

This  grew  so  strong  that  he  wrote  to  his  father, 
and  was  told  briefly  that  he  who  was  to  have  kept 
up  the  family  name  had  dragged  it  into  the  dust 
of  the  race-courses,  and  had  changed  it  at  his  own 
wish  to  that  of  the  Boy  Plunger — and  that  the 
breach  was  irreconcilable. 

Then  this  queer  feeling  came  on,  and  he  won 
dered  why  he  could  not  eat,  and  why  he  shiv 
ered  even  when  the  room  was  warm  or  the  sun 
shining,  and  the  fear  came  upon  him  that  with 
all  this  trouble  and  disgrace  his  head  might  give 
way,  and  then  that  it  had  given  way.  This  came 
to  him  at  all  times,  and  lately  more  frequently 
and  with  a  fresher,  more  cruel  thrill  of  terror,  and 
he  began  to  watch  himself  and  note  how  he  spoke, 
and  to  repeat  over  what  he  had  said  to  see  if  it 
were  sensible,  and  to  question  himself  as  to  why 
he  laughed,  and  at  what.  It  was  not  a  question 
of  whether  it  would  or  would  not  be  cowardly; 
it  was  simply  a  necessity.  The  thing  had  to  be 
stopped.  He  had  to  have  rest  and  sleep  and  peace 
again.  He  had  boasted  in  those  reckless,  prosper 
ous  days  that  if  by  any  possible  chance  he  should 
lose  his  money  he  would  drive  a  hansom,  or  emi 
grate  to  the  colonies,  or  take  the  shilling.  He 
had  no  patience  in  those  days  with  men  who  could 
not  live  on  in  adversity,  and  who  were  found  in 
the  gun-room  with  a  hole  in  their  heads,  and  whose 

152 


"  There  were    Ninety  and    Nine " 

family  asked  their  polite  friends  to  believe  that  a 
man  used  to  firearms  from  his  school-days  had 
tried  to  load  a  hair-trigger  revolver  with  the  muz 
zle  pointed  at  his  forehead.  He  had  expressed 
a  fine  contempt  for  those  men  then,  but  now  he 
had  forgotten  all  that,  and  thought  only  of  the 
relief  it  would  bring,  and  not  how  others  might 
suffer  by  it.  If  he  did  consider  this,  it  was  only 
to  conclude  that  they  would  quite  understand,  and 
be  glad  that  his  pain  and  fear  were  over. 

Then  he  planned  a  grand  coup  which  was  to 
pay  off  all  his  debts  and  give  him  a  second  chance 
to  present  himself  a  supplicant  at  his  father's 
house.  If  it  failed,  he  would  have  to  stop  this 
queer  feeling  in  his  head  at  once.  The  Grand 
Prix  and  the  English  horse  was  the  final  coup. 
On  this  depended  everything — the  return  of  his 
fortunes,  the  reconciliation  with  his  father,  and 
the  possibility  of  meeting  her  again.  It  was  a  very 
hot  day  he  remembered,  and  very  bright;  but  the 
tall  poplars  on  the  road  to  the  races  seemed  to 
stop  growing  just  at  a  level  with  his  eyes.  Below 
that  it  was  clear  enough,  but  all  above  seemed 
black — as  though  a  cloud  had  fallen  and  was  hang 
ing  just  over  the  people's  heads.  He  thought  of 
speaking  of  this  to  his  man  Walters,  who  had 
followed  his  fortunes  from  the  first,  but  decided 
not  to  do  so,  for,  as  it  was,  he  had  noticed  that 

153 


<c There  were    Ninety  and    Nine" 

Walters  had  observed  him  closely  of  late,  and  had 
seemed  to  spy  upon  him.  The  race  began,  and  he 
looked  through  his  glass  for  the  English  horse  in 
the  front  and  could  not  find  her,  and  the  French 
man  beside  him  cried,  "Frou  Frou !"  as  Frou  Frou 
passed  the  goal.  He  lowered  his  glasses  slowly 
and  unscrewed  them  very  carefully  before  drop 
ping  them  back  into  the  case;  then  he  buckled  the 
strap,  and  turned  and  looked  about  him.  Two 
Frenchmen  who  had  won  a  hundred  francs  between 
them  were  jumping  and  dancing  at  his  side.  He 
remembered  wondering  why  they  did  not  speak 
in  English.  Then  the  sunlight  changed  to  a  yel 
low,  nasty  glare,  as  though  a  calcium  light  had 
been  turned  on  the  glass  and  colors,  and  he  pushed 
his  way  back  to  his  carriage,  leaning  heavily  on 
the  servant's  arm,  and  drove  slowly  back  to  Paris, 
with  the  driver  flecking  his  horses  fretfully  with 
his  whip,  for  he  had  wished  to  wait  and  see  the 
end  of  the  races. 

He  had  selected  Monte  Carlo  as  the  place  for 
it,  because  it  was  more  unlike  his  home  than  any 
other  spot,  and  because  one  summer  night,  when 
he  had  crossed  the  lawn  from  the  Casino  to  the 
hotel  with  a  gay  party  of  young  men  and  women, 
they  had  come  across  something  under  a  bush 
which  they  took  to  be  a  dog  or  a  man  asleep,  and 
one  of  the  men  had  stepped  forward  and  touched 

154 


cc  There  were    Ninety  and    Nine  " 

it  with  his  foot,  and  had  then  turned  sharply  and 
said,  "Take  those  girls  away";  and  while  some 
hurried  the  women  back,  frightened  and  curious, 
he  and  the  others  had  picked  up  the  body  and 
found  it  to  be  that  of  a  young  Russian  whom  they 
had  just  seen  losing,  with  a  very  bad  grace,  at  the 
tables.  There  was  no  passion  in  his  face  now, 
and  his  evening  dress  was  quite  unruffled,  and  only 
a  black  spot  on  the  shirt  front  showed  where  the 
powder  had  burnt  the  linen.  It  had  made  a  great 
impression  on  him  then,  for  he  was  at  the  height 
of  his  fortunes,  with  crowds  of  sycophantic  friends 
and  a  retinue  of  dependents  at  his  heels.  And  now 
that  he  was  quite  alone  and  disinherited  by  even 
these  sorry  companions  there  seemed  no  other  es 
cape  from  the  pain  in  his  brain  but  to  end  it,  and 
he  sought  this  place  of  all  others  as  the  most  fitting 
place  in  which  to  die. 

So,  after  Walters  had  given  the  proper  papers 
and  checks  to  the  commissioner  who  handled  his 
debts  for  him,  he  left  Paris  and  took  the  first  train 
for  Monte  Carlo,  sitting  at  the  window  of  the 
carriage,  and  beating  a  nervous  tattoo  on  the  pane 
with  his  ring  until  the  old  gentleman  at  the  other 
end  of  the  compartment  scowled  at  him.  But 
Harringford  did  not  see  him,  nor  the  trees  and 
fields  as  they  swept  by,  and  it  was  not  until  Wal 
ters  came  and  said,  "You  get  out  here,  sir,"  that 

155 


"  There   were    Ninety  and    Nine " 

he  recognized  the  yellow  station  and  the  great 
hotels  on  the  hill  above.  It  was  half-past  eleven, 
and  the  lights  in  the  Casino  were  still  burning 
brightly.  He  wondered  whether  he  would  have 
time  to  go  over  to  the  hotel  and  write  a  letter  to 
his  father  and  to  her.  He  decided,  after  some 
difficult  consideration,  that  he  would  not.  There 
was  nothing  to  say  that  they  did  not  know  already, 
or  that  they  would  fail  to  understand.  But  this 
suggested  to  him  that  what  they  had  written  to 
him  must  be  destroyed  at  once,  before  any  stranger 
could  claim  the  right  to  read  it.  He  took  his  let 
ters  from  his  pocket  and  looked  them  over  care 
fully.  They  were  most  unpleasant  reading.  They 
all  seemed  to  be  about  money;  some  begged  to 
remind  him  of  this  or  that  debt,  of  which  he  had 
thought  continuously  for  the  last  month,  while 
others  were  abusive  and  insolent.  Each  of  them 
gave  him  actual  pain.  One  was  the  last  letter  he 
had  received  from  his  father  just  before  leaving 
Paris,  and  though  he  knew  it  by  heart,  he  read  it 
over  again  for  the  last  time.  That  it  came  too 
late,  that  it  asked  what  he  knew  now  to  be  im 
possible,  made  it  none  the  less  grateful  to  him, 
but  that  it  offered  peace  and  a  welcome  home  made 
it  all  the  more  terrible. 

"I  came  to  take  this  step  through  young  Har- 
graves,  the  new  curate,"  his  father  wrote,  "though 

156 


"There  were  Ninety  and  Nine" 

he  was  but  the  instrument  in  the  hands  of  Provi 
dence.  He  showed  me  the  error  of  my  conduct 
toward  you,  and  proved  to  me  that  my  duty  and 
the  inclination  of  my  heart  were  toward  the  same 
end.  He  read  this  morning  for  the  second  lesson 
the  story  of  the  Prodigal  Son,  and  I  heard  it  with 
out  recognition  and  with  no  present  application 
until  he  came  to  the  verse  which  tells  how  the 
father  came  to  his  son  'when  he  was  yet  a  great 
way  off.'  He  saw  him,  it  says,  'when  he  was  yet 
a  great  way  off,'  and  ran  to  meet  him.  He  did 
not  wait  for  the  boy  to  knock  at  his  gate  and  beg 
to  be  let  in,  but  went  out  to  meet  him,  and  took 
him  in  his  arms  and  led  him  back  to  his  home. 
Now,  my  boy,  my  son,  it  seems  to  me  as  if  you 
had  never  been  so  far  off  from  me  as  you  are  at 
this  present  time,  as  if  you  had  never  been  so  great 
ly  separated  from  me  in  every  thought  and  inter 
est;  we  are  even  worse  than  strangers,  for  you  think 
that  my  hand  is  against  you,  that  I  have  closed  the 
door  of  your  home  to  you  and  driven  you  away. 
But  what  I  have  done  I  beg  of  you  to  forgive:  to 
forget  what  I  may  have  said  in  the  past,  and  only 
to  think  of  what  I  say  now.  Your  brothers  are 
good  boys  and  have  been  good  sons  to  me,  and 
God  knows  I  am  thankful  for  such  sons,  and  thank 
ful  to  them  for  bearing  themselves  as  they  have 
done. 

157 


" There  were  Ninety  and  Nine'* 

"But,  my  boy,  my  first-born,  my  little  Cecil, 
they  can  never  be  to  me  what  you  have  been.  I 
can  never  feel  for  them  as  I  feel  for  you ;  they  are 
the  ninety  and  nine  who  have  never  wandered  away 
upon  the  mountains,  and  who  have  never  been 
tempted,  and  have  never  left  their  home  for  either 
good  or  evil.  But  you,  Cecil,  though  you  have 
made  my  heart  ache  until  I  thought  and  even 
hoped  it  would  stop  beating,  and  though  you  have 
given  me  many,  many  nights  that  I  could  not  sleep, 
are  still  dearer  to  me  than  anything  else  in  the 
world.  You  are  the  flesh  of  my  flesh  and  the  bone 
of  my  bone,  and  I  cannot  bear  living  on  without 
you.  I  cannot  be  at  rest  here,  or  look  forward 
contentedly  to  a  rest  hereafter,  unless  you  are  by 
me  and  hear  me,  unless  I  can  see  your  face  and 
touch  you  and  hear  your  laugh  in  the  halls.  Come 
back  to  me,  Cecil;  to  Harringford  and  the  people 
that  know  you  best,  and  know  what  is  best  in  you 
and  love  you  for  it.  I  can  have  only  a  few  more 
years  here  now  when  you  will  take  my  place  and 
keep  up  my  name.  I  will  not  be  here  to  trouble 
you  much  longer;  but,  my  boy,  while  I  am  here, 
come  to  me  and  make  me  happy  for  the  rest  of  my 
life.  There  are  others  who  need  you,  Cecil.  You 
know  whom  I  mean.  I  saw  her  only  yesterday, 
and  she  asked  me  of  you  with  such  splendid  dis 
regard  for  what  the  others  standing  by  might 

158 


"There  were  Ninety  and  Nine" 

think,  and  as  though  she  dared  me  or  them  to  say 
or  even  imagine  anything  against  you.  You  can 
not  keep  away  from  us  both  much  longer.  Surely 
not;  you  will  come  back  and  make  us  happy  for 
the  rest  of  our  lives." 

The  Goodwood  Plunger  turned  his  back  to  the 
lights  so  that  the  people  passing  could  not  see  his 
face,  and  tore  the  letter  up  slowly  and  dropped  it 
piece  by  piece  over  the  balcony.  "If  I  could,"  he 
whispered;  "if  I  could."  The  pain  was  a  little 
worse  than  usual  just  then,  but  it  was  no  longer 
a  question  of  inclination.  He  felt  only  this  desire 
to  stop  these  thoughts  and  doubts  and  the  physical 
tremor  that  shook  him.  To  rest  and  sleep,  that 
was  what  he  must  have,  and  peace.  There  was 
no  peace  at  home  or  anywhere  else  while  this  thing 
lasted.  He  could  not  see  why  they  worried  him 
in  this  way.  It  was  quite  impossible.  He  felt 
much  more  sorry  for  them  than  for  himself,  but 
only  because  they  could  not  understand.  He  was 
quite  sure  that  if  they  could  feel  what  he  suffered 
they  would  help  him,  even  to  end  it. 

He  had  been  standing  for  some  time  with  his 
back  to  the  light,  but  now  he  turned  to  face  it  and 
to  take  up  his  watch  again.  He  felt  quite  sure  the 
lights  would  not  burn  much  longer.  As  he  turned, 
a  woman  came  forward  from  out  the  lighted  hall, 
hovered  uncertainly  before  him,  and  then  made  a 

159 


"There  were  Ninety  and  Nine" 

silent  salutation,  which  was  something  between  a 
courtesy  and  a  bow.  That  she  was  a  woman  and 
rather  short  and  plainly  dressed,  and  that  her  bob 
bing  up  and  down  annoyed  him,  was  all  that  he 
realized  of  her  presence,  and  he  quite  failed  to 
connect  her  movements  with  himself  in  any  way. 
"Sir,"  she  said  in  French,  "I  beg  your  pardon,  but 
might  I  speak  with  you?"  The  Goodwood  Plun 
ger  possessed  a  somewhat  various  knowledge  of 
Monte  Carlo  and  its  habitues.  It  was  not  the 
first  time  that  women  who  had  lost  at  the  tables 
had  begged  a  napoleon  from  him,  or  asked  the 
distinguished  child  of  fortune  what  color  or  com 
bination  she  should  play.  That,  in  his  luckier 
days,  had  happened  often  and  had  amused  him, 
but  now  he  moved  back  irritably  and  wished  that 
the  figure  in  front  of  him  would  disappear  as  it 
had  come. 

"I  am  in  great  trouble,  sir,"  the  woman  said. 
"I  have  no  friends  here,  sir,  to  whom  I  may  apply. 
I  am  very  bold,  but  my  anxiety  is  very  great." 

The  Goodwood  Plunger  raised  his  hat  slightly 
and  bowed.  Then  he  concentrated  his  eyes  with 
what  was  a  distinct  effort  on  the  queer  little  figure 
hovering  in  front  of  him,  and  stared  very  hard. 
She  wore  an  odd  piece  of  red  coral  for  a  brooch, 
and  by  looking  steadily  at  this  he  brought  the  rest 
of  the  figure  into  focus  and  saw,  without  surprise, 

1 60 


"There  were  Ninety  and   Nine" 

— for  every  commonplace  seemed  strange  to  him 
now,  and  everything  peculiar  quite  a  matter  of 
course, — that  she  was  distinctly  not  an  habituee 
of  the  place,  and  looked  more  like  a  lady's  maid 
than  an  adventuress.  She  was  French  and  pretty, 
— such  a  girl  as  might  wait  in  a  Duval  restaurant 
or  sit  as  a  cashier  behind  a  little  counter  near  the 
door. 

"We  should  not  be  here,"  she  said,  as  if  in  an 
swer  to  his  look  and  in  apology  for  her  presence. 
"But  Louis,  my  husband,  he  would  come.  I  told 
him  that  this  was  not  for  such  as  we  are,  but  Louis 
is  so  bold.  He  said  that  upon  his  marriage  tour 
he  would  live  with  the  best,  and  so  here  he  must 
come  to  play  as  the  others  do.  We  have  been  mar 
ried,  sir,  only  since  Tuesday,  and  we  must  go  back 
to  Paris  to-morrow;  they  would  give  him  only  the 
three  days.  He  is  not  a  gambler;  he  plays  dom- 
inos  at  the  cafes,  it  is  true.  But  what  will  you? 
He  is  young  and  with  so  much  spirit,  and  I  know 
that  you,  sir,  who  are  so  fortunate  and  who  under 
stand  so  well  how  to  control  these  tables,  I  know 
that  you  will  persuade  him.  He  will  not  listen  to 
me;  he  is  so  greatly  excited  and  so  little  like  him 
self.  You  will  help  me,  sir,  will  you  not?  You 
will  speak  to  him?" 

The  Goodwood  Plunger  knit  his  eyebrows  and 
closed  the  lids  once  or  twice,  and  forced  the  misti- 


" There  were  Ninety  and  Nine" 

ness  and  pain  out  of  his  eyes.  It  was  most  annoy 
ing.  The  woman  seemed  to  be  talking  a  great 
deal  and  to  say  very  much,  but  he  could  not  make 
sense  of  it.  He  moved  his  shoulders  slightly.  "I 
can't  understand,"  he  said  wearily,  turning  away. 

"It  is  my  husband,"  the  woman  said  anxiously: 
"Louis,  he  is  playing  at  the  table  inside,  and  he  is 
only  an  apprentice  to  old  Carbut  the  baker,  but 
he  owns  a  third  of  the  store.  It  was  my  dot  that 
paid  for  it,"  she  added  proudly.  "Old  Carbut 
says  he  may  have  it  all  for  20,000  francs,  and  then 
old  Carbut  will  retire,  and  we  will  be  proprietors. 
We  have  saved  a  little,  and  we  had  counted  to  buy 
the  rest  in  five  or  six  years  if  we  were  very  care 
ful." 

"I  see,  I  see,"  said  the  Plunger,  with  a  little 
short  laugh  of  relief;  "I  understand."  He  was 
greatly  comforted  to  think  that  it  was  not  so  bad 
as  it  had  threatened.  He  saw  her  distinctly  now 
and  followed  what  she  said  quite  easily,  and  even 
such  a  small  matter  as  talking  with  this  woman 
seemed  to  help  him. 

"He  is  gambling,"  he  said,  "and  losing  the 
money,  and  you  come  to  me  to  advise  him  what 
to  play.  I  understand.  Well,  tell  him  he  will  lose 
what  little  he  has  left;  tell  him  I  advise  him  to  go 
home;  tell  him— 

"No,  no!"  the  girl  said  excitedly;  "you  do 
162 


"There  were  Ninety  and  Nine" 

not  understand;  he  has  not  lost,  he  has  won.  He 
has  won,  oh,  so  many  rolls  of  money,  but  he  will- 
not  stop.  Do  you  not  see  ?  He  has  won  as  much 
as  we  could  earn  in  many  months — in  many  years, 
sir,  by  saving  and  working,  oh,  so  very  hard !  And 
now  he  risks  it  again,  and  I  cannot  force  him  away. 
But  if  you,  sir,  if  you  would  tell  him  how  great  the 
chances  are  against  him,  if  you  who  know  would 
tell  him  how  foolish  he  is  not  to  be  content  with 
what  he  has,  he  would  listen.  He  says  to  me, 
'Bah !  you  are  a  woman' ;  and  he  is  so  red  and 
fierce;  he  is  imbecile  with  the  sight  of  the  money, 
but  he  will  listen  to  a  grand  gentleman  like  you. 
He  thinks  to  win  more  and  more,  and  he  thinks  to 
buy  another  third  from  old  Carbut.  Is  it  not  fool 
ish?  It  is  so  wicked  of  him." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  the  Goodwood  Plunger,  nod 
ding,  "I  see  now.  You  want  me  to  take  him  away 
so  that  he  can  keep  what  he  has.  I  see;  but  I  don't 
know  him.  He  will  not  listen  to  me,  you  know; 
I  have  no  right  to  interfere." 

He  turned  away,  rubbing  his  hand  across  his 
forehead.  He  wished  so  much  that  this  woman 
would  leave  him  by  himself. 

"Ah,  but,  sir,"  cried  the  girl,  desperately,  and 
touching  his  coat,  "you  who  are  so  fortunate,  and 
so  rich,  and  of  the  great  world,  you  cannot  feel 
what  this  is  to  me.  To  have  my  own  little  shop 

163 


"There  were  Ninety  and  Nine" 

and  to  be  free,  and  not  to  slave,  and  sew,  and  sew 
until  my  back  and  fingers  burn  with  the  pain. 
Speak  to  him,  sir;  ah,  speak  to  him!  It  is  so  easy 
a  thing  to  do,  and  he  will  listen  to  you." 

The  Goodwood  Plunger  turned  again  abruptly. 
"Where  is  he?"  he  said.  "Point  him  out 'to  me." 

The  woman  ran  ahead,  with  a  murmur  of  grati 
tude,  to  the  open  door  and  pointed  to  where  her 
husband  was  standing  leaning  over  and  placing 
some  money  on  one  of  the  tables.  He  was  a  hand 
some  young  Frenchman,  as  bourgeois  as  his  wife, 
and  now  terribly  alive  and  excited.  In  the  self- 
contained  air  of  the  place  and  in  contrast  with  the 
silence  of  the  great  hall  he  seemed  even  more  con 
spicuously  out  of  place.  The  Plunger  touched 
him  on  the  arm,  and  the  Frenchman  shoved  the 
hand  off  impatiently  and  without  looking  around. 
The  Plunger  touched  him  again  and  forced  him 
to  turn  toward  him. 

"Well!"  said  the  Frenchman,  quickly.   "Well?" 

"Madame,  your  wife,"  said  Cecil,  with  the 
grave  politeness  of  an  old  man,  "has  done  me  the 
honor  to  take  me  into  her  confidence.  She  tells 
me  that  you  have  won  a  great  deal  of  money;  that 
you  could  put  it  to  good  use  at  home,  and  so  save 
yourselves  much  drudgery  and  debt,  and  all  that 
sort  of  trouble.  Yon  are  quite  right  if  you  say  it 
is  no  concern  of  mine.  It  is  not.  But  really,  you 

164 


"There  were  Ninety  and  Nine" 

know  there  is  a  great  deal  of  sense  in  what  she 
wants,  and  you  have  apparently  already  won  a 
large  sum." 

The  Frenchman  was  visibly  surprised  at  this  ap 
proach.  He  paused  for  a  second  or  two  in  some 
doubt,  and  even  awe,  for  the  disinherited  one  car 
ried  the  mark  of  a  personage  of  consideration  and 
of.  one  whose  position  is  secure.  Then  he  gave  a 
short,  unmirthful  laugh. 

"You  are  most  kind,  sir,"  he  said  with  mock 
politeness  and  with  an  impatient  shrug.  "But 
madame,  my  wife,  has  not  done  well  to  interest 
a  stranger  in  this  affair,  which,  as  you  say,  con 
cerns  you  not." 

He  turned  to  the  table  again  with  a  defiant  swag 
ger  of  independence  and  placed  two  rolls  of  money 
upon  the  cloth,  casting  at  the  same  moment  a  child 
ish  look  of  displeasure  at  his  wife.  "You  see," 
said  the  Plunger,  with  a  deprecatory  turning  out 
of  his  hands.  But  there  was  so  much  grief  on 
the  girl's  face  that  he  turned  again  to  the  gambler 
and  touched  his  arm.  He  could  not  tell  why  he 
was  so  interested  in  these  two.  He  had  witnessed 
many  such  scenes  before,  and  they  had  not  affected 
him  in  any  way  except  to  make  him  move  out  of 
hearing.  But  the  same  dumb  numbness  in  his  head, 
which  made  so  many  things  seem  possible  that 
should  have  been  terrible  even  to  think  upon,  made 

165 


"There  were  Ninety  and  Nine" 

him  stubborn  and  unreasonable  over  this.  He  felt 
intuitively — it  could  not  be  said  that  he  thought — 
that  the  woman  was  right  and  the  man  wrong,  and 
so  he  grasped  him  again  by  the  arm,  and  said 
sharply  this  time: 

"Come  away!  Do  you  hear?  You  are  acting 
foolishly." 

But  even  as  he  spoke  the  red  won,  and  the 
Frenchman  with  a  boyish  gurgle  of  pleasure  raked 
in  his  winnings  with  his  two  hands,  and  then  turned 
with  a  happy,  triumphant  laugh  to  his  wife.  It 
is  not  easy  to  convince  a  man  that  he  is  making 
a  fool  of  himself  when  he  is  winning  some  hundred 
francs  every  two  minutes.  His  silent  arguments 
to  the  contrary  are  difficult  to  answer.  But  the 
Plunger  did  not  regard  this  in  the  least. 

"Do  you  hear  me?"  he  said  in  the  same  stub 
born  tone  and  with  much  the  same  manner  with 
which  he  would  have  spoken  to  a  groom.  "Come 
away." 

Again  the  Frenchman  tossed  off  his  hand,  this 
time  with  an  execration,  and  again  he  placed  the 
rolls  of  gold  coin  on  the  red;  and  again  the  red 
won. 

"My  God!"  cried  the  girl,  running  her  fingers 
over  the  rolls  on  the  table,  "he  has  won  half  of  the 
20,000  francs.  Oh,  sir,  stop  him,  stop  him !"  she 
cried.  "Take  him  away." 

166 


"There  were  Ninety  and  Nine" 

"Do  you  hear  me !"  cried  the  Plunger,  excited 
to  a  degree  of  utter  self-forgetfulness,  and  carried 
beyond  himself;  "you've  got  to  come  with  me." 

"Take  away  your  hand,"  whispered  the  young 
Frenchman,  fiercely.  "See,  I  shall  win  it  all;  in 
one  grand  coup  I  shall  win  it  all.  I  shall  win 
five  years'  pay  in  one  moment." 

He  swept  all  of  the  money  forward  on  the  red 
and  threw  himself  over  the  table  to  see  the  wheel. 

"Wait,  confound  you !"  whispered  the  Plunger, 
excitedly.  "If  you  will  risk  it,  risk  it  with  some 
reason.  You  can't  play  all  that  money;  they  won't 
take  it.  Six  thousand  francs  is  the  limit,  unless," 
he  ran  on  quickly,  "you  divide  the  12,000  francs 
among  the  three  of  us.  You  understand,  6,000 
francs  is  all  that  any  one  person  can  play;  but  if 
you  give  4,000  to  me,  and  4,000  to  your  wife,  and 
keep  4,000  yourself,  we  can  each  chance  it.  You 
can  back  the  red  if  you  like,  your  wife  shall  put 
her  money  on  the  numbers  coming  up  below  eight 
een,  and  I  will  back  the  odd.  In  that  way  you 
stand  to  win  24,000  francs  if  our  combination  wins, 
and  you  lose  less  than  if  you  simply  back  the  color. 
Do  you  understand?" 

"No!"  cried  the  Frenchman,  reaching  for  the 
piles  of  money  which  the  Plunger  had  divided 
rapidly  into  three  parts,  "on  the  red;  all  on  the 
red!" 

167 


cc  There  were  Ninety  and  Nine" 

"Good  heavens,  man!"  cried  the  Plunger,  bit 
terly.  "I  may  not  know  much,  but  you  should 
allow  me  to  understand  this  dirty  business."  He 
caught  the  Frenchman  by  the  wrists,  and  the  young 
man,  more  impressed  with  the  strange  look  in  the 
boy's  face  than  by  his  physical  force,  stood  still, 
while  the  ball  rolled  and  rolled,  and  clicked  mer 
rily,  and  stopped,  and  balanced,  and  then  settled 
into  the  "seven." 

"Red,  odd,  and  below,"  the  croupier  droned 
mechanically. 

"Ah!  you  see;  what  did  I  tell  you?"  said  the 
Plunger,  with  sudden  calmness.  "You  have  won 
more  than  your  20,000  francs;  you  are  proprie 
tors — I  congratulate  you  !" 

"Ah,  my  God!"  cried  the  Frenchman,  in  a  fren 
zy  of  delight,  "I  will  double  it." 

He  reached  toward  the  fresh  piles  of  coin  as  if 
he  meant  to  sweep  them  back  again,  but  the  Plun 
ger  put  himself  in  his  way  and  with  a  quick  move 
ment  caught  up  the  rolls  of  money  and  dropped 
them  into  the  skirt  of  the  woman,  which  she  raised 
like  an  apron  to  receive  her  treasure. 

"Now,"  said  young  Harringford,  determined 
ly,  "you  come  with  me."  The  Frenchman  tried 
to  argue  and  resist,  but  the  Plunger  pushed  him 
on  with  the  silent  stubbornness  of  a  drunken  man. 
He  handed  the  woman  into  a  carriage  at  the  door, 

168 


"There  were  Ninety  and  Nine" 

shoved  her  husband  in  beside  her,  and  while  the 
man  drove  to  the  address  she  gave  him,  he  told 
the  Frenchman,  with  an  air  of  a  chief  of  police, 
that  he  must  leave  Monte  Carlo  at  once,  that  very 
night. 

"Do  you  suppose  I  don't  know?"  he  said.  "Do 
you  fancy  I  speak  without  knowledge?  I've  seen 
them  come  here  rich  and  go  away  paupers.  But 
you  shall  not;  you  shall  keep  what  you  have  and 
spite  them."  He  sent  the  woman  up  to  her  room 
to  pack  while  he  expostulated  with  and  browbeat 
the  excited  bridegroom  in  the  carriage.  When 
she  returned  with  the  bag  packed,  and  so  heavy 
with  the  gold  that  the  servants  could  hardly  lift  it 
up  beside  the  driver,  he  ordered  the  coachman  to 
go  down  the  hill  to  the  station. 

"The  train  for  Paris  leaves  at  midnight,"  he 
said,  "and  you  will  be  there  by  morning.  Then 
you  must  close  your  bargain  with  this  old  Carbut, 
and  never  return  here  again." 

The  Frenchman  had  turned  during  the  ride  from 
an  angry,  indignant  prisoner  to  a  joyful  madman, 
and  was  now  tearfully  and  effusively  humble  in 
his  petitions  for  pardon  and  in  his  thanks.  Their 
benefactor,  as  they  were  pleased  to  call  him,  hur 
ried  them  into  the  waiting  train  and  ran  to  pur 
chase  their  tickets  for  them. 

"Now,"  he  said,  as  the  guard  locked  the  door 
169 


" There  were  Ninety  and  Nine" 

of  the  compartment,  "you  are  alone,  and  no  one 
can  get  in,  and  you  cannot  get  out.  Go  back  to 
your  home,  to  your  new  home,  and  never  come 
to  this  wretched  place  again.  Promise  me — you 
understand? — never  again!" 

They  promised  with  effusive  reiteration.  They 
embraced  each  other  like  children,  and  the  man, 
pulling  off  his  hat,  called  upon  the  good  Lord  to 
thank  the  gentleman. 

"You  will  be  in  Paris,  will  you  not?"  said  the 
woman,  in  an  ecstasy  of  pleasure,  "and  you  will 
come  to  see  us  in  our  own  shop,  will  you  not?  Ah ! 
we  should  be  so  greatly  honored,  sir,  if  you  would 
visit  us;  if  you  would  come  to  the  home  you  have 
given  us.  You  have  helped  us  so  greatly,  sir,"  she 
said;  "and  may  Heaven  bless  you!" 

She  caught  up  his  gloved  hand  as  it  rested  on 
the  door  and  kissed  it  until  he  snatched  it  away  in 
great  embarrassment  and  flushing  like  a  girl.  Her 
husband  drew  her  toward  him.  and  the  young 
bride  sat  at  his  side  with  her  face  close  to  his  and 
wept  tears  of  pleasure  and  of  excitement. 

"Ah,  look,  sir!"  said  the  young  man,  joyfully; 
"look  how  happy  you  have  made  us.  You  have 
made  us  happy  for  the  rest  of  our  lives." 

The  train  moved  out  with  a  quick,  heavy  rush, 
and  the  car-wheels  took  up  the  young  stranger's 
last  words  and  seemed  to  say,  "You  have  made 

170 


"There  were  Ninety  and  Nine" 

us  happy — made  us  happy  for  the  rest  of  our 
lives." 

It  had  all  come  about  so  rapidly  that  the  Plun 
ger  had  had  no  time  to  consider  or  to  weigh  his 
motives,  and  all  that  seemed  real  to  him  now,  as 
he  stood  alone  on  the  platform  of  the  dark,  de 
serted  station,  were  the  words  of  the  man  echoing 
and  re-echoing  like  the  refrain  of  the  song.  And 
then  there  came  to  him  suddenly,  and  with  all  the 
force  of  a  gambler's  superstition,  the  thought  that 
the  words  were  the  same  as  those  which  his  father 
had  used  in  his  letter,  "you  can  make  us  happy 
for  the  rest  of  our  lives." 

"Ah,"  he  said,  with  a  quick  gasp  of  doubt,  "if 
I  could!  If  I  made  those  poor  fools  happy, 
mayn't  I  live  to  be  something  to  him,  and  to  her? 
O  God!"  he  cried,  but  so  gently  that  one  at  his 
elbow  could  not  have  heard  him,  "if  I  could,  if  I 
could!" 

He  tossed  up  his  hands,  and  drew  them  down 
again  and  clenched  them  in  front  of  him,  and 
raised  his  tired,  hot  eyes  to  the  calm  purple  sky 
with  its  millions  of  moving  stars.  "Help  me!" 
he  whispered  fiercely,  "help  me."  And  as  he  low 
ered  his  head  the  queer  numb  feeling  seemed  to 
go,  and  a  calm  came  over  his  nerves  and  left  him 
in  peace.  He  did  not  know  what  it  might  be, 
nor  did  he  dare  to  question  the  change  which  had 

171 


cc 


There  were  Ninety  and  Nine 


come  to  him,  but  turned  and  slowly  mounted  the 
hill,  with  the  awe  and  fear  still  upon  him  of  one 
who  had  passed  beyond  himself  for  one  brief  mo 
ment  into  another  world.  When  he  reached  his 
room  he  found  his  servant  bending  with  an  anxious 
face  over  a  letter  which  he  tore  up  guiltily  as  his 
master  entered.  "You  were  writing  to  my  father," 
said  Cecil,  gently,  "were  you  not?  Well,  you  need 
not  finish  your  letter;  we  are  going  home. 

"I  am  going  away  from  this  place,  Walters," 
he  said  as  he  pulled  off  his  coat  and  threw  himself 
heavily  on  the  bed.  "I  will  take  the  first  train 
that  leaves  here,  and  I  will  sleep  a  little  while  you 
put  up  my  things.  The  first  train,  you  understand 
— within  an  hour,  if  it  leaves  that  soon."  His 
head  sank  back  on  the  pillows  heavily,  as  though 
he  had  come  in  from  a  long,  weary  walk,  and  his 
eyes  closed  and  his  arms  fell  easily  at  his  side. 
The  servant  stood  frightened  and  yet  happy,  with 
the  tears  running  down  his  cheeks,  for  he  loved 
his  master  dearly. 

"We-  are  going  home,  Walters,"  the  Plunger 
whispered  drowsily.  "We  are  going  home;  home 
to  England  and  Harringford  and  the  governor — 
and  we  are  going  to  be  happy  for  all  the  rest  of 
our  lives."  He  paused  a  moment,  and  Walters 
bent  forward  over  the  bed  and  held  his  breath 
to  listen. 

172 


"There  were  Ninety  and  Nine" 

"For  he  came  to  me,"  murmured  the  boy,  as 
though  he  was  speaking  in  his  sleep,  "when  I  was 
yet  a  great  way  off — while  I  was  yet  a  great  way 
off,  and  ran  to  meet  me — " 

His  voice  sank  until  it  died  away  into  silence, 
and  a  few  hours  later,  when  Walters  came  to 
wake  him,  he  found  his  master  sleeping  like  a 
child  and  smiling  in  his  sleep. 


173 


THE    CYNICAL 
MISS    CATHERWAIGHT 


The    Cynical 
Miss    Catherwaight 

MISS  CATHERWAIGHT'S  collection  of 
orders  and  decorations  and  medals  was 
her  chief  offence  in  the  eyes  of  those  of  her  dear 
friends  who  thought  her  clever  but  cynical. 

All  of  them  were  willing  to  admit  that  she  was 
clever,  but  some  of  them  said  she  was  clever  only 
to  be  unkind. 

Young  Van  Bibber  had  said  that  if  Miss  Cath 
erwaight  did  not  like  dances  and  days  and  teas, 
she  had  only  to  stop  going  to  them  instead  of  mak 
ing  unpleasant  remarks  about  those  who  did.  So 
many  people  repeated  this  that  young  Van  Bibber 
believed  finally  that  he  had  said  something  good, 
and  was  somewhat  pleased  in  consequence,  as  he 
was  not  much  given  to  that  sort  of  thing. 

Mrs.  Catherwaight,  while  she  was  alive,  lived 
solely  for  society,  and,  so  some  people  said,  not 
only  lived  but  died  for  it.  She  certainly  did  go 
about  a  great  deal,  and  she  used  to  carry  her  hus- 

177 


The  Cynical  Miss  Catherwaight 

band  away  from  his  library  every  night  of  every 
season  and  left  him  standing  in  the  doorways  of 
drawing-rooms,  outwardly  courteous  and  distin 
guished  looking,  but  inwardly  somnolent  and  un 
happy.  She  was  a  born  and  trained  social  leader, 
and  her  daughter's  coming  out  was  to  have  been 
the  greatest  effort  of  her  life.  She  regarded  it  as 
an  event  in  the  dear  child's  lifetime  second  only 
in  importance  to  her  birth;  equally  important  with 
her  probable  marriage  and  of  much  more  poignant 
interest  than  her  possible  death.  But  the  great 
effort  proved  too  much  for  the  mother,  and  she 
died,  fondly  remembered  by  her  peers  and  tenderly 
referred  to  by  a  great  many  people  who  could  not 
even  show  a  card  for  her  Thursdays.  Her  hus 
band  and  her  daughter  were  not  going  out,  of 
necessity,  for  more  than  a  year  after  her  death, 
and  then  felt  no  inclination  to  begin  over  again, 
but  lived  very  much  together  and  showed  them 
selves  only  occasionally. 

They  entertained,  though,  a  great  deal,  in  the 
way  of  dinners,  and  an  invitation  to  one  of  these 
dinners  soon  became  a  diploma  for  intellectual  as 
well  as  social  qualifications  of  a  very  high  order. 

One  was  always  sure  of  meeting  some  one  of 
consideration  there,  which  was  pleasant  in  itself, 
and  also  rendered  it  easy  to  let  one's  friends  know 

178 


The  Cynical  Miss   Catherwaight 

where  one  had  been  dining.  It  sounded  so  flat 
to  boast  abruptly,  "I  dined  at  the  Catherwaights' 
last  night";  while  it  seemed  only  natural  to  re 
mark,  "That  reminds  me  of  a  story  that  novelist, 
what's  his  name,  told  at  Mr.  Catherwaight's," 
or  "That  English  chap,  who's  been  in  Africa,  was 
at  the  Catherwaights'  the  other  night,  and  told 
me—" 

After  one  of  these  dinners  people  always  asked 
to  be  allowed  to  look  over  Miss  Catherwaight's 
collection,  of  which  almost  everybody  had  heard. 
It  consisted  of  over  a  hundred  medals  and  decora 
tions  which  Miss  Catherwaight  had  purchased 
while  on  the  long  tours  she  made  with  her  father 
in  all  parts  of  the  world.  Each  of  them  had  been 
given  as  a  reward  for  some  public  service,  as  a 
recognition  of  some  virtue  of  the  highest  order — 
for  personal  bravery,  for  statesmanship,  for  great 
genius  in  the  arts;  and  each  had  been  pawned  by 
the  recipient  or  sold  outright.  Miss  Catherwaight 
referred  to  them  as  her  collection  of  dishonored 
honors,  and  called  them  variously  her  Orders  of 
the  Knights  of  the  Almighty  Dollar,  pledges  to 
patriotism  and  the  pawnshops,  and  honors  at  sec 
ond-hand. 

It  was  her  particular  fad  to  get  as  many  of  these 
together  as  she  could  and  to  know  the  story  of 

179 


The  Cynical  Miss  Catherwaight 

each.  The  less  creditable  the  story,  the  more 
highly  she  valued  the  medal.  People  might  think 
it  was  not  a  pretty  hobby  for  a  young  girl,  but 
they  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  stories  and  at 
the  scorn  v/ith  which  she  told  them. 

"These,"  she  would  say,  "are  crosses  of  the  Le 
gion  of  Honor;  they  are  of  the  lowest  degree, 
that  of  chevalier.  I  keep  them  in  this  cigar  box 
to  show  how  cheaply  I  got  them  and  how  cheap 
ly  I  hold  them.  I  think  you  can  get  them  here 
in  New  York  for  ten  dollars;  they  cost  more  than 
that — about  a  hundred  francs — in  Paris.  At  sec 
ond-hand,  of  course.  The  French  government  can 
imprison  you,  you  know,  for  ten  years,  if  you  wear 
one  without  the  right  to  do  so,  but  they  have  no 
punishment  for  those  who  choose  to  part  with 
them  for  a  mess  of  pottage. 

"All  these,"  she  would  run  on,  "are  English 
war  medals.  See,  on  this  one  is  'Alma,'  'Bala 
clava,'  and  'Sebastopol.'  He  was  quite  a  veteran, 
was  he  not?  Well,  he  sold  this  to  a  dealer  on  War- 
dour  Street,  London,  for  five  and  six.  You  can 
get  any  number  of  them  on  the  Bowery  for  their 
weight  in  silver.  I  tried  very  hard  to  get  a  Vic 
toria  Cross  when  I  was  in  England,  and  I  only 
succeeded  in  getting  this  one  after  a  great  deal  of 
trouble.  They  value  the  cross  so  highly,  you 

180 


The  Cynical  Miss  Catherwaight 

know,  that  it  is  the  only  other  decoration  in  the 
case  which  holds  the  Order  of  the  Garter  in  the 
Jewel  Room  at  the  Tower.  It  is  made  of  copper, 
so  that  its  intrinsic  value  won't  have  any  weight 
with  the  man  who  gets  it,  but  I  bought  this  never 
theless  for  five  pounds.  The  soldier  to  whom  it 
belonged  had  loaded  and  fired  a  cannon  all  alone 
when  the  rest  of  the  men  about  the  battery  had 
run  away.  He  was  captured  by  the  enemy,  but 
retaken  immediately  afterward  by  re-enforcements 
from  his  own  side,  and  the  general  in  command 
recommended  him  to  the  Queen  for  decoration. 
He  sold  his  cross  to  the  proprietor  of  a  curiosity 
shop  and  drank  himself  to  death.  I  felt  rather 
meanly  about  keeping  it  and  hunted  up  his  widow 
to  return  it  to  her,  but  she  said  I  could  have  it 
for  a  consideration. 

"This  gold  medal  was  given,  as  you  see,  to 
'Hiram  J.  Stillman,  of  the  sloop  Annie  Barker, 
for  saving  the  crew  of  the  steamship  Olivia,  June 
1 8,  1888,'  by  the  President  of  the  United  States 
and  both  houses  of  Congress.  I  found  it  on  Bax 
ter  Street  in  a  pawnshop.  The  gallant  Hiram  J. 
had  pawned  it  for  sixteen  dollars  and  never  came 
back  to  claim  it." 

"But,  Miss  Catherwaight,"  some  optimist  would 
object,  "these  men  undoubtedly  did  do  something 

181 


The  Cynical  Miss   Catherwaight 

brave  and  noble  once.  You  can't  get  back  of  that; 
and  they  didn't  do  it  for  a  medal,  either,  but  be 
cause  it  was  their  duty.  And  so  the  medal  meant 
nothing  to  them :  their  conscience  told  them  they 
had  done  the  right  thing;  they  didn't  need  a 
stamped  coin  to  remind  them  of  it,  or  of  their 
wounds,  either,  perhaps." 

"Quite  right;  that's  quite  true,"  Miss  Cather 
waight  would  say.  "But  how  about  this?  Look 
at  this  gold  medal  with  the  diamonds:  'Presented 
to  Colonel  James  F.  Placerl  by  the  men  of  his 
regiment,  in  camp  before  Richmond.'  Every  sol 
dier  in  the  regiment  gave  something  toward  that, 
and  yet  the  brave  gentleman  put  it  up  at  a  game 
of  poker  one  night,  and  the  officer  who  won  it  sold 
it  to  the  man  who  gave  it  to  me.  Can  you  de 
fend  that?" 

Miss  Catherwaight  was  well  known  to  the  pro 
prietors  of  the  pawnshops  and  loan  offices  on  the 
Bowery  and  Park  Row.  They  learned  to  look 
for  her  once  a  month,  and  saved  what  medals  they 
received  for  her  and  tried  to  learn  their  stories 
from  the  people  who  pawned  them,  or  else  invent 
ed  some  story  which  they  hoped  would  answer  just 
as  well. 

Though  her  brougham  produced  a  sensation  in 
the  unfashionable  streets  into  which  she  directed 

182 


The  Cynical  Miss  Catherwaight 

it,  she  was  never  annoyed.  Her  maid  went  with 
her  into  the  shops,  and  one  of  the  grooms  always 
stood  at  the  door  within  call,  to  the  intense  delight 
of  the  neighborhood.  And  one  day  she  found 
what,  from  her  point  of  view,  was  a  perfect  gem. 
It  was  a  poor,  cheap-looking,  tarnished  silver 
medal,  a  half-dollar  once,  undoubtedly,  beaten  out 
roughly  into  the  shape  of  a  heart  and  engraved 
in  script  by  the  jeweller  of  some  country  town. 
On  one  side  were  two  clasped  hands  with  a  wreath 
around  them,  and  on  the  reverse  was  this  inscrip 
tion:  "From  Henry  Burgoyne  to  his  beloved 
friend  Lewis  L.  Lockwood" ;  and  below,  "Through 
prosperity  and  adversity."  That  was  all.  And 
here  it  was  among  razors  and  pistols  and  family 
Bibles  in  a  pawnbroker's  window.  What  a  story 
there  was  in  that!  These  two  boy  friends,  and 
their  boyish  friendship  that  was  to  withstand  ad 
versity  and  prosperity,  and  all  that  remained  of 
it  was  this  inscription  to  its  memory  like  the  word 
ing  on  a  tomb ! 

"He  couldn't  have  got  so  much  on  it  any  way," 
said  the  pawnbroker,  entering  into  her  humor.  "I 
didn't  lend  him  more'n  a  quarter  of  a  dollar  at 
the  most." 

Miss  Catherwaight  stood  wondering  if  the 
Lewis  L.  Lockwood  could  be  Lewis  Lockwood, 

183 


The  Cynical  Miss  Catherwaight 

the  lawyer  one  read  so  much  about.  Then  she 
remembered  his  middle  name  was  Lyman,  and 
said  quickly,  "I'll  take  it,  please." 

She  stepped  into  the  carriage,  and  told  the  man 
to  go  find  a  directory  and  look  for  Lewis  Lyman 
Lockwood.  The  groom  returned  in  a  few  minutes 
and  said  there  was  such  a  name  down  in  the  book 
as  a  lawyer,  and  that  his  office  was  such  a  number 
on  Broadway;  it  must  be  near  Liberty.  "Go 
there,"  said  Miss  Catherwaight. 

Her  determination  was  made  so  quickly  that 
they  had  stopped  in  front  of  a  huge  pile  of  offices, 
sandwiched  in,  one  above  the  other,  until  they 
towered  mountains  high,  before  she  had  quite  set 
tled  in  her  mind  what  she  wanted  to  know,  or 
had  appreciated  how  strange  her  errand  might 
appear.  Mr.  Lockwood  was  out,  one  of  the  young 
men  in  the  outer  office  said,  but  the  junior  partner, 
Mr.  Latimer,  was  in  and  would  see  her.  She  had 
only  time  to  remember  that  the  junior  partner  was 
a  dancing  acquaintance  of  hers,  before  young  Mr. 
Latimer  stood  before  her  smiling,  and  with  her 
card  in  his  hand. 

"Mr.  Lockwood  is  out  just  at  present,  Miss 
Catherwaight,"  he  said,  "but  he  will  be  back  in 
a  moment.  Won't  you  come  into  the  other 
room  and  wait?  I'm  sure  he  won't  be  away 

184 


The  Cynical  Miss  Catherwaight 

over  five  minutes.  Or  is  it  something  I  could 
do?" 

She  saw  that  he  was  surprised  to  see  her,  and  a 
little  ill  at  ease  as  to  just  how  to  take  her  visit.  He 
tried  to  make  it  appear  that  he  considered  it  the 
most  natural  thing  in  the  world,  but  he  overdid 
it,  and  she  saw  that  her  presence  was  something 
quite  out  of  the  common.  This  did  not  tend  to 
set  her  any  more  at  her  ease.  She  already  re 
gretted  the  step  she  had  taken.  What  if  it  should 
prove  to  be  the  same  Lockwood,  she  thought,  and 
what  would  they  think  of  her? 

"Perhaps  you  will  do  better  than  Mr.  Lock- 
wood,"  she  said,  as  she  followed  him  into  the  in 
ner  office.  "I  fear  I  have  come  upon  a  very  foolish 
errand,  and  one  that  has  nothing  at  all  to  do  with 
the  law." 

"Not  a  breach  of  promise  suit,  then?"  said 
young  Latimer,  with  a  smile.  "Perhaps  it  is  only 
an  innocent  subscription  to  a  most  worthy  charity. 
I  was  afraid  at  first,"  he  went  on  lightly,  "that 
it  was  legal  redress  you  wanted,  and  I  was  hoping 
that  the  way  I  led  the  Courdert's  cotillion  had 
made  you  think  I  could  conduct  you  through  the 
mazes  of  the  law  as  well." 

"No,"  returned  Miss  Catherwaight,  with  a  ner 
vous  laugh;  "it  has  to  do  with  my  unfortunate 

185 


The   Cynical  Miss  Catherwaight 

collection.  This  is  what  brought  me  here,"  she 
said,  holding  out  the  silver  medal.  "I  came  across 
it  just  now  in  the  Bowery.  The  name  was  the 
same,  and  I  thought  it  just  possible  Mr.  Lock- 
wood  would  like  to  have  it;  or,  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  that  he  might  tell  me  what  had  become  of 
the  Henry  Burgoyne  who  gave  it  to  him." 

Young  Latimer  had  the  medal  in  his  hand  be 
fore  she  had  finished  speaking,  and  was  examining 
it  carefully.  He  looked  up  with  just  a  touch  of 
color  in  his  cheeks  and  straightened  himself  vis 
ibly. 

"Please  don't  be  offended,"  said  the  fair  collec 
tor.  "I  know  what  you  think.  You've  heard  of 
my  stupid  collection,  and  I  know  you  think  I  meant 
to  add  this  to  it.  But,  indeed,  now  that  I  have 
had  time  to  think — you  see  I  came  here  immedi 
ately  from  the  pawnshop,  and  I  was  so  interested, 
like  all  collectors,  you  know,  that  I  didn't  stop 
to  consider.  That's  the  worst  of  a  hobby;  it  car 
ries  one  rough-shod  over  other  people's  feelings, 
and  runs  away  with  one.  I  beg  of  you,  if  you  do 
know  anything  about  the  coin,  just  to  keep  it  and 
don't  tell  me,  and  I  assure  you  what  little  I  know 
I  will  keep  quite  to  myself." 

Young  Latimer  bowed,  and  stood  looking  at 
her  curiously,  with  the  medal  in  his  hand. 

186 


The  Cynical  Miss  Catherwaight 

"I  hardly  know  what  to  say,"  he  began  slowly. 
"It  really  has  a  story.  You  say  you  found  this 
on  the  Bowery,  in  a  pawnshop.  Indeed!  Well, 
of  course,  you  know  Mr.  Lockwood  could  not  have 
left  it  there." 

Miss  Catherwaight  shook  her  head  vehemently 
and  smiled  in  deprecation. 

"This  medal  was  in  his  safe  when  he  lived  on 
Thirty-fifth  Street  at  the  time  he  was  robbed,  and 
the  burglars  took  this  with  the  rest  of  the  silver 
and  pawned  it,  I  suppose.  Mr.  Lockwood  would 
have  given  more  for  it  than  any  one  else  could 
have  afforded  to  pay."  He  paused  a  moment,  and 
then  continued  more  rapidly:  "Henry  Burgoyne 
is  Judge  Burgoyne.  Ah!  you  didn't  guess  that? 
Yes,  Mr.  Lockwood  and  he  were  friends  when 
they  were  boys.  They  went  to  school  in  West- 
chester  County.  They  were  Damon  and  Pythias 
and  that  sort  of  thing.  They  roomed  together  at 
the  State  college  and  started  to  practise  law  in 
Tuckahoe  as  a  firm,  but  they  made  nothing  of  it, 
and  came  on  to  New  York  and  began  reading  law 
again  with  Fuller  &  Mowbray.  It  was  while  they 
were  at  school  that  they  had  these  medals  made. 
There  was  a  mate  to  this,  you  know;  Judge  Bur 
goyne  had  it.  Well,  they  continued  to  live  and 
work  together.  They  were  both  orphans  and  de- 

187 


The  Cynical  Miss  Catherwaight 

pendent  on  themselves.  I  suppose  that  was  one  of 
the  strongest  bonds  between  them ;  and  they  knew 
no  one  in  New  York,  and  always  spent  their  spare 
time  together.  They  were  pretty  poor,  I  fancy, 
from  all  Mr.  Lockwood  has  told  me,  but  they  were 
very  ambitious.  They  were — I'm  telling  you  this, 
you  understand,  because  it  concerns  you  somewhat : 
well,  more  or  less.  They  were  great  sportsmen, 
and  whenever  they  could  get  away  from  the  law 
office  they  would  go  off  shooting.  I  think  they 
were  fonder  of  each  other  than  brothers  even. 
I've  heard  Mr.  Lockwood  tell  of  the  days  they 
lay  in  the  rushes  along  the  Chesapeake  Bay  wait 
ing  for  duck.  He  has  said  often  that  they  were 
the  happiest  hours  of  his  life.  That  was  their 
greatest  pleasure,  going  off  together  after  duck 
or  snipe  along  the  Maryland  waters.  Well,  they 
grew  rich  and  began  to  know  people;  and  then 
they  met  a  girl.  It  seems  they  both  thought  a 
great  deal  of  her,  as  half  the  New  York  men  did, 
I  am  told;  and  she  was  the  reigning  belle  and  toast, 
and  had  other  admirers,  and  neither  met  with  that 
favor  she  showed — well,  the  man  she  married, 
for  instance.  But  for  a  while  each  thought,  for 
some  reason  or  other,  that  he  was  especially  fa 
vored.  I  don't  know  anything  about  it.  Mr.  Lock- 
wood  never  spoke  of  it  to  me.  But  they  both  fell 

1 88 


The  Cynical  Miss  Catherwaight 

very  deeply  in  love  with  her,  and  each  thought  the 
other  disloyal,  and  so  they  quarrelled;  and — and 
then,  though  the  woman  married,  the  two  men 
kept  apart.  It  was  the  one  great  passion  of  their 
lives,  and  both  were  proud,  and  each  thought 
the  other  in  the  wrong,  and  so  they  have  kept 
apart  ever  since.  And — well,  I  believe  that  is 
all." 

Miss  Catherwaight  had  listened  in  silence  and 
with  one  little  gloved  hand  tightly  clasping  the 
other. 

"Indeed,  Mr.  Latimer,  indeed,"  she  began, 
tremulously,  "I  am  terribly  ashamed  of  myself. 
I  seemed  to  have  rushed  in  where  angels  fear  to 
tread.  I  wouldn't  meet  Mr.  Lockwood  now  for 
worlds.  Of  course  I  might  have  known  there  was 
a  woman  in  the  case,  it  adds  so  much  to  the  story. 
But  I  suppose  I  must  give  up  my  medal.  I  never 
could  tell  that  story,  could  I?" 

"No,"  said  young  Latimer,  dryly;  ((I  wouldn't 
if  I  were  you." 

Something  in  his  tone,  and  something  in  the 
fact  that  he  seemed  to  avoid  her  eyes,  made  her 
drop  the  lighter  vein  in  which  she  had  been  speak 
ing,  and  rise  to  go.  There  was  much  that  he  had 
not  told  her,  she  suspected,  and  when  she  bnde  him 
good-by  it  was  with  a  reserve  which  she  had 

189 


The  Cynical  Miss  Catherwaight 

not  shown  at  any  other  time  during  their  inter 
view. 

"I  wonder  who  that  woman  was?"  she  mur 
mured,  as  young  Latimer  turned  from  the  brough 
am  door  and  said  "Home,"  to  the  groom.  She 
thought  about  it  a  great  deal  that  afternoon;  at 
times  she  repented  that  she  had  given  up  the 
medal,  and  at  times  she  blushed  that  she  should 
have  been  carried  in  her  zeal  into  such  an  unwar 
ranted  intimacy  with  another's  story. 

She  determined  finally  to  ask  her  father  about 
it.  He  would  be  sure  to  know,  she  thought,  as  he 
and  Mr.  Lockwood  were  contemporaries.  Then 
she  decided  finally  not  to  say  anything  about  it  at 
all,  for  Mr.  Catherwaight  did  not  approve  of  the 
collection  of  dishonored  honors  as  it  was,  and  she 
had  no  desire  to  prejudice  him  still  further  by  a 
recital  of  her  afternoon's  adventure,  of  which  she 
had  no  doubt  but  he  would  also  disapprove.  So 
she  was  more  than  usually  silent  during  the  dinner, 
which  was  a  tete-a-tete  family  dinner  that  night, 
and  she  allowed  her  father  to  doze  after  it  in  the 
library  in  his  great  chair  without  disturbing  him 
with  either  questions  or  confessions. 

They  had  been  sitting  there  some  time,  he  with 
his  hands  folded  on  the  evening  paper  and  with 
his  eyes  closed,  when  the  servant  brought  in  a 

190 


c 

I 


The  Cynical  Miss  Catherwaight 

card  and  offered  it  to  Mr.  Catherwaight.  Mr. 
Catherwaight  fumbled  over  his  glasses,  and  read 
the  name  on  the  card  aloud:  "  'Mr.  Lewis  L. 
Lockwood.'  Dear  me!"  he  said;  "what  can  Mr. 
Lockwood  be  calling  upon  me  about?" 

Miss  Catherwaight  sat  upright,  and  reached 
out  for  the  card  with  a  nervous,  gasping  little 
laugh. 

"Oh,  I  think  it  must  be  for  me,"  she  said;  "I'm 
quite  sure  it  is  intended  for  me.  I  was  at  his 
office  to-day,  you  see,  to  return  him  some  keepsake 
of  his  that  I  found  in  an  old  curiosity  shop.  Some 
thing  with  his  name  on  it  that  had  been  stolen 
from  him  and  pawned.  It  was  just  a  trifle.  You 
needn't  go  down,  dear;  I'll  see  him.  It  was  I 
he  asked  for,  I'm  sure;  was  it  not,  Morris?" 

Morris  was  not  quite  sure;  being  such  an  old 
gentleman,  he  thought  it  must  be  for  Mr.  Cather 
waight  he'd  come. 

Mr.  Catherwaight  was  not  greatly  interested. 
He  did  not  like  to  disturb  his  after-dinner  nap, 
and  he  settled  back  in  his  chair  again  and  refolded 
his  hands. 

"I  hardly  thought  he  could  have  come  to  see 
me,"  he  murmured,  drowsily;  "though  I  used  to 
see  enough  and  more  than  enough  of  Lewis  Lock- 
wood  once,  my  dear,"  he  added  with  a  smile,  as 

191 


The  Cynical  Miss  Catherwaight 

he  opened  his  eyes  and  nodded  before  he  shut  them 
again.  "That  was  before  your  mother  and  I  were 
engaged,  and  people  did  say  that  young  Lock- 
wood's  chances  at  that  time  were  as  good  as  mine. 
But  they  weren't,  it  seems.  He  was  very  attentive, 
though;  very  attentive." 

Miss  Catherwaight  stood  startled  and  motion 
less  at  the  door  from  which  she  had  turned. 

"Attentive — to  whom?"  she  asked  quickly,  and 
in  a  very  low  voice.  "To  my  mother?" 

Mr.  Catherwaight  did  not  deign  to  open  his 
eyes  this  time,  but  moved  his  head  uneasily  as  if 
he  wished  to  be  let  alone. 

"To  your  mother,  of  course,  my  child,"  he  an 
swered;  "of  whom  else  was  I  speaking?" 

Miss  Catherwaight  went  down  the  stairs  to  the 
drawing-room  slowly,  and  paused  half-way  to  al 
low  this  new  suggestion  to  settle  in  her  mind. 
There  was  something  distasteful  to  her,  something 
that  seemed  not  altogether  unblamable,  in  a  wom 
an's  having  two  men  quarrel  about  her,  neither 
of  whom  was  the  woman's  husband.  And  yet  this 
girl  of  whom  Latimer  had  spoken  must  be  her 
mother,  and  she,  of  course,  could  do  no  wrong. 
It  was  very  disquieting,  and  she  went  on  down  the 
rest  of  the  way  with  one  hand  resting  heavily  on 
the  railing  and  with  the  other  pressed  against  her 

192 


The  Cynical  Miss  Catherwaight 

cheeks.  She  was  greatly  troubled.  It  now  seemed 
to  her  very  sad  indeed  that  these  two  one-time 
friends  should  live  in  the  same  city  and  meet,  as 
they  must  meet,  and  not  recognize  each  other.  She 
argued  that  her  mother  must  have  been  very  young 
when  it  happened,  or  she  would  have  brought  two 
such  men  together  again.  Her  mother  could  not 
have  known,  she  told  herself;  she  was  not  to  blame. 
For  she  felt  sure  that  had  she  herself  known  of 
such  an  accident  she  would  have  done  something, 
said  something,  to  make  it  right.  And  she  was 
not  half  the  woman  her  mother  had  been,  she  was 
sure  of  that. 

There  was  something  very  likable  in  the  old 
gentleman  who  came  forward  to  greet  her  as  she 
entered  the  drawing-room;  something  courtly  and 
of  the  old  school,  of  which  she  was  so  tired  of 
hearing,  but  of  which  she  wished  she  could  have 
seen  more  in  the  men  she  met.  Young  Mr.  Lati- 
mer  had  accompanied  his  guardian,  exactly  why 
she  did  not  see,  but  she  recognized  his  presence 
slightly.  He  seemed  quite  content  to  remain  in 
the  background.  Mr.  Lockwood,  as  she  had  ex 
pected,  explained  that  he  had  called  to  thank  her 
for  the  return  of  the  medal.  He  had  it  in  his 
hand  as  he  spoke,  and  touched  it  gently  with  the 
tips  of  his  fingers  as  though  caressing  it. 

193 


The  Cynical  Miss  Catherwaight 

"I  knew  your  father  very  well,"  said  the  lawyer, 
uand  I  at  one  time  had  the  honor  of  being  one  of 
your  mother's  younger  friends.  That  was  before 
she  was  married,  many  years  ago."  He  stopped 
and  regarded  the  girl  gravely  and  with  a  touch 
of  tenderness.  "You  will  pardon  an  old  man,  old 
enough  to  be  your  father,  if  he  says,"  he  went  on, 
"that  you  are  greatly  like  your  mother,  my  dear 
young  lady — greatly  like.  Your  mother  was  very 
kind  to  me,  and  I  fear  I  abused  her  kindness; 
abused  it  by  misunderstanding  it.  There  was  a 
great  deal  of  misunderstanding;  and  I  was  proud, 
and  my  friend  was  proud,  and  so  the  misunder 
standing  continued,  until  now  it  has  become  irre 
trievable." 

He  had  forgotten  her  presence  apparently,  and 
was  speaking  more  to  himself  than  to  her  as  he 
stood  looking  down  at  the  medal  in  his  hand. 

"You  were  very  thoughtful  to  give  me  this," 
he  continued;  "it  was  very  good  of  you.  T  don't 
know  why  I  should  keep  it  though,  now,  although 
I  was  distressed  enough  when  I  lost  it.  But  now 
it  is  only  a  reminder  of  a  time  that  is  past  and  put 
away,  but  which  was  very,  very  dear  to  me.  Per 
haps  I  should  tell  you  that  I  had  a  misunderstand 
ing  with  the  friend  who  gave  it  to  me,  and  since 
then  we  have  never  met;  have  ceased  to  know  each 

194 


The  Cynical  Miss  Catherwaight 

other.  But  I  have  always  followed  his  life  as  a 
judge  and  as  a  lawyer,  and  respected  him  for  his 
own  sake  as  a  man.  I  cannot  tell — I  do  not  know 
how  he  feels  toward  me." 

The  old  lawyer  turned  the  medal  over  in  his 
hand  and  stood  looking  down  at  it  wistfully. 

The  cynical  Miss  Catherwaight  could  not  stand 
it  any  longer. 

"Mr.  Lockwood,"  she  said,  impulsively,  "Mr. 
Latimer  has  told  me  why  you  and  your  friend  sepa 
rated,  and  I  cannot  bear  to  think  that  it  was  she — 
my  mother — should  have  been  the  cause.  She 
could  not  have  understood;  she  must  have  been 
innocent  of  any  knowledge  of  the  trouble  she  had 
brought  to  men  who  were  such  good  friends  of 
hers  and  to  each  other.  It  seems  to  me  as  though 
my  finding  that  coin  is  more  than  a  coincidence. 
I  somehow  think  that  the  daughter  is  to  help  undo 
the  harm  that  her  mother  has  caused — unwitting 
ly  caused.  Keep  the  medal  and  don't  give  it  back 
to  me,  for  I  am  sure  your  friend  has  kept  his,  and 
I  am  sure  he  is  still  your  friend  at  heart.  Don't 
think  I  am  speaking  hastily  or  that  I  am  thought 
less  in  what  I  am  saying,  but  it  seems  to  me  as  if 
friends — good,  true  friends — were  so  few  that  one 
cannot  let  them  go  without  a  word  to  bring  them 
back.  But  though  I  am  only  a  girl,  and  a  very 

195 


The  Cynical  Miss  Catherwaight 

light  and  unfeeling  girl,  some  people  think,  I  feel 
this  very  much,  and  I  do  wish  I  could  bring  your 
old  friend  back  to  you  again  as  I  brought  back 
his  pledge." 

"It  has  been  many  years  since  Henry  Burgoyne 
and  I  have  met,"  said  the  old  man,  slowly,  "and 
it  would  be  quite  absurd  to  think  that  he  still  holds 
any  trace  of  that  foolish,  boyish  feeling  of  loyalty 
that  we  once  had  for  each  other.  Yet  I  will  keep 
this,  if  you  will  let  me,  and  I  thank  you,  my  dear 
young  lady,  for  what  you  have  said.  I  thank  you 
from  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  You  are  as  good 
and  as  kind  as  your  mother  was,  and — I  can  say 
nothing,  believe  me,  in  higher  praise." 

He  rose  slowly  and  made  a  movement  as  if  to 
leave  the  room,  and  then,  as  if  the  excitement  of 
this  sudden  return  into  the  past  could  not  be  shaken 
off  so  readily,  he  started  forward  with  a  move  of 
sudden  determination. 

"I  think,"  he  said,  "I  will  go  to  Henry  Bur- 
goyne's  house  at  once,  to-night.  I  will  act  on  what 
you  have  suggested.  I  will  see  if  this  has  or  has 
not  been  one  long,  unprofitable  mistake.  If  my 
visit  should  be  fruitless,  I  will  send  you  this  coin 
to  add  to  your  collection  of  dishonored  honors, 
but  :f  it  should  result  as  I  hope  it  may,  it  will  be 
your  doing,  Miss  Catherwaight,  and  two  old  men 

196 


The  Cynical  Miss   Catherwaight 

will  have  much  to  thank  you  for.  Good-night," 
he  said  as  he  bowed  above  her  hand,  "and — 
God  bless  you!' 

Miss  Catherwaight  flushed  slightly  at  what  he 
had  said,  and  sat  looking  down  at  the  floor  for  a 
moment  after  the  door  had  closed  behind  him. 

Young  Mr.  Latimer  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair. 
The  routine  of  the  office  had  been  strangely  dis 
turbed  that  day,  and  he  .now  failed  to  recognize 
in  the  girl  before  him  with  reddened  cheeks 
and  trembling  eyelashes  the  cold,  self-possessed 
young  woman  of  society  whom  he  had  formerly 
known. 

"You  have  done  very  well,  if  you  will  let  me 
say  so,"  he  began,  gently.  "I  hope  you  are  right 
in  what  you  said,  and  that  Mr.  Lockwood  will  not 
meet  with  a  rebuff  or  an  ungracious  answer. 
Why,"  he  went  on  quickly,  "I  have  seen  him  take 
out  his  gun  now  every  spring  and  every  fall  for 
the  last  ten  years  and  clean  and  polish  it  and  tell 
what  great  shots  he  and  Henry,  as  he  calls  him, 
used  to  be.  And  then  he  would  say  he  would  take 
a  holiday  and  get  off  for  a  little  shooting.  But 
he  never  went.  He  would  put  the  gun  back  into 
its  case  again  and  mope  in  his  library  for  days 
afterward.  You  see,  he  never  married,  and  though 
he  adopted  me,  in  a  manner,  and  is  fond  of  me 

197 


The  Cynical  Miss  Catherwaight 

In  a  certain  way,  no  one  ever  took  the  place  in  his 
heart  his  old  friend  had  held." 

"You  will  let  me  know,  wi'  ou  not,  at  once, 
— to-night,  even, — whether  he  succeeds  or  not?" 
said  the  cynical  Miss  Catherwaight.  "You  can 
understand  why  I  am  so  deeply  interested.  I  see 
now  why  you  said  I  would  not  tell  the  story  of  that 
medal.  But,  after  all,  it  may  be  the  prettiest  story, 
the  only  pretty  story  I  have  to  tell." 

Mr.  Lockwood  had  not  returned,  the  man  said, 
when  young  Latimer  reached  the  home  the  lawyer 
had  made  for  them  both.  He  did  not  know  what 
to  argue  from  this,  but  determined  to  sit  up  and 
wait,  and  so  sat  smoking  before  the  fire  and  listen 
ing  with  his  sense  of  hearing  on  a  strain  for  the 
first  movement  at  the  door. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait.  The  front  door 
shut  with  a  clash,  and  he  heard  Mr.  Lockwood 
crossing  the  hall  quickly  to  the  library,  in  which 
he  waited.  Then  the  inner  door  was  swung  back, 
and  Mr.  Lockwood  came  in  with  his  head  high 
and  his  eyes  smiling  brightly. 

There  was  something  in  his  step  that  had  not 
been  there  before,  something  light  and  vigorous, 
and  he  looked  ten  years  younger.  He  crossed  the 
room  to  his  writing-table  without  speaking  and  be 
gan  tossing  the  papers  about  on  his  desk.  Then 

198 


The  Cynical  Miss  Catherwaight 

he  closed  the  rolling-top  lid  with  a  snap  and  looked 
up  smiling. 

"I  shall  have  to  ask  you  to  look  after  things 
at  the  office  for  a  little  while,"  he  said.  "Judge 
Burgoyne  and  I  are  going  to  Maryland  for  a  few 
weeks'  shooting." 


199 


VAN    BIBBER    AND    THE 
SWAN-BOATS 


Van    Bibber    and    the 
Swan-Boats 

IT  was  very  hot  in  the  Park,  and  young  Van 
Bibber,  who  has  a  good  heart  and  a  great  deal 
more  money  than  good-hearted  people  generally 
get,  was  cross  and  somnolent.  He  had  told  his 
groom  to  bring  a  horse  he  wanted  to  try  to  the 
Fifty-ninth  Street  entrance  at  ten  o'clock,  and  the 
groom  had  not  appeared.  Hence  Van  Bibber's 
crossness. 

He  waited  as  long  as  his  dignity  would  allow, 
and  then  turned  off  into  a  by-lane  and  dropped 
on  a  bench  and  looked  gloomily  at  the  Lohengrin 
swans  with  the  paddle-wheel  attachment  that  cir 
cle  around  the  lake.  They  struck  him  as  the  most 
idiotic  inventions  he  had  ever  seen,  and  he  pitied, 
with  the  pity  of  a  man  who  contemplates  crossing 
the  ocean  to  be  measured  for  his  fall  clothes,  the 
people  who  could  find  delight  in  having  some  one 
paddle  them  around  an  artificial  lake. 

Two  little  girls  from  the  East  Side,  with  a  lunch 
basket,  and  an  older  girl  with  her  hair  down  her 

203 


Van  Bibber  and  the  Swan-Boats 

back,  sat  down  on  a  bench  beside  him  and  gazed 
at  the  swans. 

The  place  was  becoming  too  popular,  and  Van 
Bibber  decided  to  move  on.  But  the  bench  on 
which  he  sat  was  in  the  shade,  and  the  asphalt 
walk  leading  to  the  street  was  in  the  sun,  and  his 
cigarette  was  soothing,  so  he  ignored  the  near  pres 
ence  of  the  three  little  girls,  and  remained  where 
he  was. 

"  I  s'pose,"  said  one  of  the  two  little  girls,  in 
a  high,  public  school  voice,  "there's  lots  to  see 
from  those  swan-boats  that  youse  can't  see  from 
the  banks." 

"Oh,  lots,"  assented  the  girl  with  long  hair. 

"If  you  walked  all  round  the  lake,  clear  all  the 
way  round,  you  could  see  all  there  is  to  see,"  said 
the  third,  "except  what  there's  in  the  middle  where 
the  island  is." 

"I  guess  it's  mighty  wild  on  that  island,"  sug 
gested  the  youngest. 

"Eddie  Case  he  took  a  trip  around  the  lake  on 
a  swan-boat  the  other  day.  He  said  that  it  was 
grand.  He  said  youse  could  see  fishes  and  ducks, 
and  that  it  looked  just  as  if  there  were  snakes  and 
things  on  the  island." 

"What  sort  of  things?"  asked  the  other  one,  in 
a  hushed  voice. 

"Well,  wild  things,"  explained  the  elder,  vague- 
204 


Van  Bibber  and  the  Swan-Boats 

ly;  "bears  and  animals  like  that,  that  grow  in  wild 
places." 

Van  Bibber  lit  a  fresh  cigarette,  and  settled  him 
self  comfortably  and  unreservedly  to  listen. 

"My,  but  I'd  like  to  take  a  trip  just  once,"  said 
the  youngest,  under  her  breath.  Then  she  clasped 
her  fingers  together  and  looked  up  anxiously  at 
the  elder  girl,  who  glanced  at  her  with  severe  re 
proach. 

"Why,  Mame!"  she  said;  "ain't  you  ashamed! 
Ain't  you  having  a  good  time  'nuff  without  wish 
ing  for  everything  you  set  your  eyes  on?" 

Van  Bibber  wondered  at  this — why  humans 
should  want  to  ride  around  on  the  swans  in  the 
first  place,  and  why,  if  they  had  such  a  wild  de 
sire,  they  should  not  gratify  it. 

"Why,  it  costs  more'n  it  costs  to  come  all  the 
way  up  town  in  an  open  car,"  added  the  elder  girl, 
as  if  in  answer  to  his  unspoken  question. 

The  younger  girl  sighed  at  this,  and  nodded  her 
head  in  submission,  but  blinked  longingly  at  the 
big  swans  and  the  parti-colored  awning  and  the 
red  seats. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Van  Bibber,  address 
ing  himself  uneasily  to  the  eldest  girl  with  long 
hair,  "but  if  the  little  girl  would  like  to  go  around 
in  one  of  those  things,  and — and  hasn't  brought 
the  change  with  her,  you  know,  I'm  sure  I  should 

205 


Van  Bibber  and  the  Swan-Boats 

be  very  glad  if  she'd  allow  me  to  send  her 
around." 

"Oh!  will  you?"  exclaimed  the  little  girl,  with 
a  jump,  and  so  sharply  and  in  such  a  shrill  voice 
that  Van  Bibber  shuddered.  But  the  elder  girl 
objected. 

"I'm  afraid  maw  wouldn't  like  our  taking  money 
from  any  one  we  didn't  know,"  she  said  with  dig 
nity;  "but  if  you're  going  anyway  and  want  com 
pany — " 

"Oh !  my,  no,"  said  Van  Bibber,  hurriedly.  He 
tried  to  picture  himself  riding  around  the  lake  be 
hind  a  tin  swan  with  three  little  girls  from  the 
East  Side,  and  a  lunch  basket. 

"Then,"  said  the  head  of  the  trio,  "we  can't 

go." 

There  was  such  a  look  of  uncomplaining  ac 
ceptance  of  this  verdict  on  the  part  of  the  two 
little  girls,  that  Van  Bibber  felt  uncomfortable. 
He  looked  to  the  right  and  to  the  left,  and  then 
said  desperately,  "Well,  come  along."  The  young 
man  in  a  blue  flannel  shirt,  who  did  the  paddling, 
smiled  at  Van  Bibber's  riding-breeches,  which  were 
so  very  loose  at  one  end  and  so  very  tight  at  the 
other,  and  at  his  gloves  and  crop.  But  Van  Bibber 
pretended  not  to  care.  The  three  little  girls  placed 
the  awful  lunch  basket  on  the  front  seat  and  sat 
on  the  middle  one,  and  Van  Bibber  cowered  in  the 

206 


Van  Bibber  and  the  Swan-Boats 

back.  They  were  hushed  in  silent  ecstasy  when  it 
started,  and  gave  little  gasps  of  pleasure  when  it 
careened  slightly  in  turning.  It  was  shady  under 
the  awning,  and  the  motion  was  pleasant  enough, 
but  Van  Bibber  was  so  afraid  some  one  would  see 
him  that  he  failed  to  enjoy  it. 

But  as  soon  as  they  passed  into  the  narrow  straits 
and  were  shut  in  by  the  bushes  and  were  out  of 
sight  of  the  people,  he  relaxed,  and  began  to  play 
the  host.  He  pointed  out  the  fishes  among  the 
rocks  at  the  edges  of  the  pool,  and  the  sparrows 
and  robins  bathing  and  ruffling  their  feathers  in 
the  shallow  water,  and  agreed  with  them  about 
the  possibility  of  bears,  and  even  tigers,  in  the 
wild  part  of  the  island,  although  the  glimpse  of 
the  gray  helmet  of  a  Park  policeman  made  such 
a  supposition  doubtful. 

And  it  really  seemed  as  though  they  were  en 
joying  it  more  than  he  ever  enjoyed  a  trip  up  the 
Sound  on  a  yacht  or  across  the  ocean  on  a  record- 
breaking  steamship.  It  seemed  long  enough  be 
fore  they  got  back  to  Van  Bibber,  but  his  guests 
were  evidently  but  barely  satisfied.  Still,  all  the 
goodness  in  his  nature  would  not  allow  him  to  go 
through  that  ordeal  again. 

He  stepped  out  of  the  boat  eagerly  and  helped 
out  the  girl  with  long  hair  as  though  she  had 
been  a  princess  and  tipped  the  rude  young  man 

207 


Van   Bibber  and  the   Swan-Boats 

who  had  laughed  at  him,  but  who  was  perspiring 
now  with  the  work  he  had  done;  and  then  as  he 
turned  to  leave  the  dock  he  came  face  to  face  with 
A  Girl  He  Knew  and  Her  brother. 

Her  brother  said,  "How're  you,  Van  Bibber? 
Been  taking  a  trip  around  the  world  in  eighty 
minutes?"  And  added  in  a  low  voice,  "Introduce 
me  to  your  young  lady  friends  from  Hester 
Street." 

"Ah,  how're  you — quite  a  surprise!"  gasped 
Van  Bibber,  while  his  late  guests  stared  admiring 
ly  at  the  pretty  young  lady  in  the  riding-habit,  and 
utterly  refused  to  move  on.  "Been  taking  ride  on 
the  lake,"  stammered  Van  Bibber;  "most  exhila 
rating.  Young  friends  of  mine — these  young  la 
dies  never  rode  on  lake,  so  I  took  'em.  Did  you 
see  me?" 

"Oh,  yes,  we  saw  you,"  said  Her  brother,  dry 
ly,  while  she  only  smiled  at  him,  but  so  kindly  and 
with  such  perfect  understanding  that  Van  Bibber 
grew  red  with  pleasure  and  bought  three  long 
strings  of  tickets  for  the  swans  at  some  absurd 
discount,  and  gave  each  little  girl  a  string. 

"There,"  said  Her  brother  to  the  little  ladies 
from  Hester  Street,  "now  you  can  take  trips  for 
a  week  without  stopping.  Don't  try  to  smuggle 
in  any  laces,  and  don't  forget  to  fee  the  smoking- 
room  steward." 

208 


Van  Bibber  and  the  Swan-Boats 

The  Girl  He  Knew  said  they  were  walking  over 
to  the  stables,  and  that  he  had  better  go  get  his 
other  horse  and  join  her,  which  was  to  be  his  re 
ward  for  taking  care  of  the  young  ladies.  And 
the  three  little  girls  proceeded  to  use  up  the  yards 
of  tickets  so  industriously  that  they  were  sun 
burned  when  they  reached  the  tenement,  and  went 
to  bed  dreaming  of  a  big  white  swan,  and  a  beau 
tiful  young  gentleman  in  patent-leather  riding- 
boots  and  baggy  breeches. 


VAN    BIBBER'S    BURGLAR 


Van  Bibber's  Burglar 

THERE  had  been  a  dance  up  town,  but  as 
Van  Bibber  could  not  find  Her  there,  he 
accepted  young  Travers's  suggestion  to  go  over  to 
Jersey  City  and  see  a  "go"  between  "Dutchy" 
Mack  and  a  colored  person  professionally  known 
as  the  Black  Diamond.  They  covered  up  all  signs 
of  their  evening  dress  with  their  great-coats,  and 
filled  their  pockets  with  cigars,  for  the  smoke  which 
surrounds  a  "go"  is  trying  to  sensitive  nostrils,  and 
they  also  fastened  their  watches  to  both  key-chains. 
Alf  Alpin,  who  was  acting  as  master  of  ceremonies, 
was  greatly  pleased  and  flattered  at  their  com 
ing,  and  boisterously  insisted  on  their  sitting  on 
the  platform.  The  fact  was  generally  circulated 
among  the  spectators  that  the  "two  gents  in  high 
hats"  had  come  in  a  carriage,  and  this  and  their 
patent-leather  boots  made  them  objects  of  keen 
interest.  It  was  even  whispered  that  they  were 
the  "parties"  who  were  putting  up  the  money  to 
back  the  Black  Diamond  against  the  "Hester 
Street  Jackson."  This  in  itself  entitled  them  to 
respect.  Van  Bibber  was  asked  to  hold  the  watch, 

213 


Van   Bibber's   Burglar 

but  he  wisely  declined  the  honor,  which  was  given 
to  Andy  Spielman,  the  sporting  reporter  of  the 
Track  and  Ring,  whose  watch-case  was  covered 
with  diamonds,  and  was  just  the  sort  of  a  watch 
a  timekeeper  should  hold. 

It  was  two  o'clock  before  "Dutchy"  Mack's 
backer  threw  the  sponge  into  the  air,  and  three 
before  they  reached  the  city.  They  had  another 
reporter  in  the  cab  with  them  besides  the  gentle 
man  who  had  bravely  held  the  watch  in  the  face 
of  several  offers  to  "do  for"  him;  and  as  Van 
Bibber  was  ravenously  hungry,  and  as  he  doubted 
that  he  could  get  anything  at  that  hour  at  the  club, 
they  accepted  Spielman's  invitation  and  went  for 
a  porterhouse  steak  and  onions  at  the  Owl's  Nest, 
Gus  McGowan's  all-night  restaurant  on  Third 
Avenue. 

It  was  a  very  dingy,  dirty  place,  but  it  was  as 
warm  as  the  engine-room  of  a  steamboat,  and  the 
steak  was  perfectly  done  and  tender.  It  was  too 
late  to  go  to  bed,  so  they  sat  around  the  table,  with 
their  chairs  tipped  back  and  their  knees  against 
its  edge.  The  two  club  men  had  thrown  off  their 
great-coats,  and  their  wide  shirt  fronts  and  silk 
facings  shone  grandly  in  the  smoky  light  of  the 
oil  lamps  and  the  red  glow  from  the  grill  in  the 
corner.  They  talked  about  the  life  the  reporters 
led,  and  the  Philistines  asked  foolish  questions, 

214 


Van  Bibber's   Burglar 

which  the  gentleman  of  the  press  answered  with* 
out  showing  them  how  foolish  they  were. 

"And  I  suppose  you  have  all  sorts  of  curious 
adventures,"  said  Van  Bibber,  tentatively. 

"Well,  no,  not  what  I  would  call  adventures," 
said  one  of  the  reporters.  "I  have  never  seen  any 
thing  that  could  not  be  explained  or  attributed  di 
rectly  to  some  known  cause,  such  as  crime  or  pov 
erty  or  drink.  You  may  think  at  first  that  you 
have  stumbled  on  something  strange  and  romantic, 
but  it  comes  to  nothing.  You  would  suppose  that 
in  a  great  city  like  this  one  would  come  across 
something  that  could  not  be  explained  away — 
something  mysterious  or  out  of  the  common,  like 
Stevenson's  Suicide  Club.  But  I  have  not  found 
it  so.  Dickens  once  told  James  Payn  that  the  most 
curious  thing  he  ever  saw  in  his  rambles  around 
London  was  a  ragged  man  who  stood  crouching 
under  the  window  of  a  great  house  where  the 
owner  was  giving  a  ball.  While  the  man  hid  be 
neath  a  window  on  the  ground  floor,  a  woman 
wonderfully  dressed  and  very  beautiful  raised  the 
sash  from  the  inside  and  dropped  her  bouquet 
down  into  the  man's  hand,  and  he  nodded  and 
stuck  it  under  his  coat  and  ran  off  with  it. 

"I  call  that,  now,  a  really  curious  thing  to  see. 
But  I  have  never  come  across  anything  like  it,  and 
I  have  been  in  every  part  of  this  big  city,  and  at 

215 


Van  Bibber's  Burglar 

every  hour  of  the  night  and  morning,  and  I  am 
not  lacking  in  imagination  either,  but  no  captured 
maidens  have  ever  beckoned  to  me  from  barred 
windows  nor  'white  hands  waved  from  a  passing 
hansom.'  Balzac  and  De  Musset  and  Stevenson 
suggest  that  they  have  had  such  adventures,  but 
they  never  come  to  me.  It  is  all  commonplace 
and  vulgar,  and  always  ends  in  a  police  court  or 
with  a  'found  drowned'  in  the  North  River." 

McGowan,  who  had  fallen  into  a  doze  behind 
the  bar,  woke  suddenly  and  shivered  and  rubbed 
his  shirt-sleeves  briskly.  A  woman  knocked  at  the 
side  door  and  begged  for  a  drink  "for  the  love  of 
heaven,"  and  the  man  who  tended  the  grill  told 
her  to  be  off.  They  could  hear  her  feeling  her 
way  against  the  wall  and  cursing  as  she  staggered 
out  of  the  alley.  Three  men  came  in  with  a  hack 
driver  and  wanted  everybody  to  drink  with  them, 
and  became  insolent  when  the  gentlemen  declined, 
and  were  in  consequence  hustled  out  one  at  a  time 
by  McGowan,  who  went  to  sleep  again  immedi 
ately,  with  his  head  resting  among  the  cigar  boxes 
and  pyramids  of  glasses  at  the  back  of  the  bar, 
and  snored. 

"You  see,"  said  the  reporter,  "it  is  all  like  this. 
Night  in  a  great  city  is  not  picturesque  and  it  is 
not  theatrical.  It  is  sodden,  sometimes  brutal,  ex 
citing  enough  until  you  get  used  to  it,  but  it  runs 

216 


Van  Bibber's   Burglar 

in  a  groove.  It  is  dramatic,  but  the  plot  is  old 
and  the  motives  and  characters  always  the  same." 

The  rumble  of  heavy  market  wagons  and  the 
rattle  of  milk  carts  told  them  that  it  was  morning, 
and  as  they  opened  the  door  the  cold  fresh  air 
swept  into  the  place  and  made  them  wrap  their 
collars  around  their  throats  and  stamp  their  feet 
The  morning  wind  swept  down  the  cross-street 
from  the  East  River  and  the  lights  of  the  street 
lamps  and  of  the  saloon  looked  old  and  tawdry. 
Travers  and  the  reporter  went  off  to  a  Turkish 
bath,  and  the  gentleman  who  held  the  watch,  and 
who  had  been  asleep  for  the  last  hour,  dropped 
into  a  nighthawk  and  told  the  man  to  drive  home. 
It  was  almost  clear  now  and  very  cold,  and  Van 
Bibber  determined  to  walk.  He  had  the  strange 
feeling  one  gets  when  one  stays  up  until  the  sun 
rises,  of  having  lost  a  day  somewhere,  and  the 
dance  he  had  attended  a  few  hours  before  seemed 
to  have  come  off  long  ago,  and  the  fight  in  Jersey 
City  was  far  back  in  the  past. 

The  houses  along  the  cross-street  through  which 
he  walked  were  as  dead  as  so  many  blank  walls, 
and  only  here  and  there  a  lace  curtain  waved  out 
of  the  open  window  where  some  honest  citizen 
was  sleeping.  The  street  was  quite  deserted;  not 
even  a  cat  or  a  policeman  moved  on  it  and  Van 
Bibber's  footsteps  sounded  brisk  on  the  sidewalk. 

217 


Van  Bibber's  Burglar 

There  was  a  great  house  at  the  corner  of  the  ave 
nue  and  the  cross-street  on  which  he  was  walking. 
The  house  faced  the  avenue  and  a  stone  wall  ran 
back  to  the  brown  stone  stable  which  opened  on 
the  side  street.  There  was  a  door  in  this  wall,  and 
as  Van  Bibber  approached  it  on  his  solitary  walk 
it  opened  cautiously,  and  a  man's  head  appeared 
in  it  for  an  instant  and  was  withdrawn  again  like 
a  flash,  and  the  door  snapped  to.  Van  Bibber 
stopped  and  looked  at  the  door  and  at  the  house 
and  up  and  down  the  street.  The  house  was  tight 
ly  closed,  as  though  some  one  was  lying  inside 
dead,  and  the  streets  were  still  empty. 

Van  Bibber  could  think  of  nothing  in  his  ap 
pearance  so  dreadful  as  to  frighten  an  honest  man, 
so  he  decided  the  face  he  had  had  a  glimpse  of 
must  belong  to  a  dishonest  one.  It  was  none  of 
his  business,  he  assured  himself,  but  it  was  curious, 
and  he  liked  adventure,  and  he  would  have  liked 
to  prove  his  friend  the  reporter,  who  did  not  be 
lieve  in  adventure,  in  the  wrong.  So  he  approached 
the  door  silently,  and  jumped  and  caught  at  the 
top  of  the  wall  and  stuck  one  foot  on  the  handle 
of  the  door,  and,  with  the  other  on  the  knocker, 
drew  himself  up  and  looked  cautiously  down  on 
the  other  side.  He  had  done  this  so  lightly  that 
the  only  noise  he  made  was  the  rattle  of  the  door 
knob  on  which  his  foot  had  rested,  and  the  man 

218 


Van  Bibber's  Burglar 

inside  thought  that  the  one  outside  was  trying  to 
open  the  door,  and  placed  his  shoulder  to  it  and 
pressed  against  it  heavily.  Van  Bibber,  from  his 
perch  on  the  top  of  the  wall,  looked  down  directly 
on  the  other's  head  and  shoulders.  He  could  see 
the  top  of  the  man's  head  only  two  feet  below, 
and  he  also  saw  that  in  one  hand  he  held  a  re 
volver  and  that  two  bags  filled  with  projecting  arti 
cles  of  different  sizes  lay  at  his  feet. 

It  did  not  need  explanatory  notes  to  tell  Van 
Bibber  that  the  man  below  had  robbed  the  big 
house  on  the  corner,  and  that  if  it  had  not  been 
for  his  having  passed  when  he  did  the  burglar 
would  have  escaped  with  his  treasure.  His  first 
thought  was  that  he  was  not  a  policeman,  and  that 
a  fight  with  a  burglar  was  not  in  his  line  of  life; 
and  this  was  followed  by  the  thought  that  though 
the  gentleman  who  owned  the  property  in  the  two 
bags  was  of  no  interest  to  him,  he  was,  as  a  re 
spectable  member  of  society,  more  entitled  to  con 
sideration  than  the  man  with  the  revolver. 

The  fact  that  he  was  now,  whether  he  liked  it 
or  not,  perched  on  the  top  of  the  wall  like  Humpty 
Dumpty,  and  that  the  burglar  might  see  him  and 
shoot  him  the  next  minute,  had  also  an  immediate 
influence  on  his  movements.  So  he  balanced  him 
self  cautiously  and  noiselessly  and  dropped  upon 
the  man's  head  and  shoulders,  bringing  him  down 

219 


Van  Bibber's  Burglar 

to  the  flagged  walk  with  him  and  under  him.  The 
revolver  went  off  once  in  the  struggle,  but  before 
the  burglar  could  know  how  or  from  where  his 
assailant  had  come,  Van  Bibber  was  standing  up 
over  him  and  had  driven  his  heel  down  on  his 
hand  and  kicked  the  pistol  out  of  his  fingers.  Then 
he  stepped  quickly  to  where  it  lay  and  picked  it 
up  and  said,  "Now,  if  you  try  to  get  up  I'll  shoot 
at  you."  He  felt  an  unwarranted  and  ill-timedly 
humorous  inclination  to  add,  "and  I'll  probably 
miss  you,"  but  subdued  it.  The  burglar,  much  to 
Van  Bibber's  astonishment,  did  not  attempt  to  rise, 
but  sat  up  with  his  hands  locked  across  his  knees 
and  said:  "Shoot  ahead.  I'd  a  damned  sight 
rather  you  would." 

His  teeth  were  set  and  his  face  desperate  and 
bitter,  and  hopeless  to  a  degree  of  utter  hopeless 
ness  that  Van  Bibber  had  never  Imagined. 

"Go  ahead,"  reiterated  the  man,  doggedly,  "I 
won't  move.  Shoot  me." 

It  was  a  most  unpleasant  situation.  Van  Bib 
ber  felt  the  pistol  loosening  in  his  hand,  and  he 
was  conscious  of  a  strong  inclination  to  lay  it  down 
and  ask  the  burglar  to  tell  him  all  about  it. 

"You  haven't  got  much  heart,"  said  Van  Bib 
ber,  finally.  "You're  a  pretty  poor  sort  of  a  bur 
glar,  T  should  say." 

"What's  the  use?"  said  the  man,  fiercely.     "I 

220 


Van  Bibber's  Burglar 

won't  go  back — I  won't  go  back  there  alive.  I've 
served  my  time  forever  in  that  hole.  If  I  have 
to  go  back  again — s'help  me  if  I  don't  do  for  a 
keeper  and  die  for  it.  But  I  won't  serve  there 
no  more." 

"Go  back  where?"  asked  Van  Bibber,  gently, 
and  greatly  interested;  "to  prison?" 

"To  prison,  yes!"  cried  the  man,  hoarsely:  "to 
a  grave.  That's  where.  Look  at  my  face,"  he 
said,  "and  look  at  my  hair.  That  ought  to  tell 
you  where  I've  been.  With  all  the  color  gone 
out  of  my  skin,  and  all  the  life  out  of  my  legs. 
You  needn't  be  afraid  of  me.  I  couldn't  hurt  you 
if  I  wanted  to.  I'm  a  skeleton  and  a  baby,  I  am. 
I  couldn't  kill  a  cat.  And  now  you're  going  to 
send  me  back  again  for  another  lifetime.  For 
twenty  years,  this  time,  into  that  cold,  forsaken 
hole,  and  after  I  done  my  time  so  well  and  worked 
so  hard."  Van  Bibber  shifted  the  pistol  from  one 
hand  to  the  other  and  eyed  his  prisoner  doubtfully. 

"How  long  have  you  been  out?"  he  asked, 
seating  himself  on  the  steps  of  the  kitchen  and 
holding  the  revolver  between  his  knees.  The  sun 
was  driving  the  morning  mist  away,  and  he  had 
forgotten  the  cold. 

"I  got  out  yesterday,"  said  the  man. 

Van  Bibber  glanced  at  the  bags  and  lifted  the 
revolver.  "You  didn't  waste  much  time,"  he  said. 

221 


Van  Bibber's  Burglar 

"No,"  answered  the  man,  sullenly,  "no,  I  didn't. 
I  knew  this  place  and  I  wanted  money  to  get  West 
to  my  folks,  and  the  Society  said  I'd  have  to  wait 
until  I  earned  it,  and  I  couldn't  wait.  I  haven't 
seen  my  wife  for  seven  years,  nor  my  daughter. 
Seven  years,  young  man;  think  of  that — seven 
years.  Do  you  know  how  long  that  is?  Seven 
years  without  seeing  your  wife  or  your  child !  And 
they're  straight  people,  they  are,"  he  added,  hast 
ily.  "My  wife  moved  West  after  I  was  put  away 
and  took  another  name,  and  my  girl  never  knew 
nothing  about  me.  She  thinks  I'm  away  at  sea. 
I  was  to  join  'em.  That  was  the  plan.  I  was 
to  join  'em,  and  I  thought  I  could  lift  enough 
here  to  get  the  fare,  and  now,"  he  added,  drop 
ping  his  face  in  his  hands,  "I've  got  to  go  back. 
And  I  had  meant  to  live  straight  after  I  got  West, 
— God  help  me,  but  I  did!  Not  that  it  makes 
much  difference  now.  An'  I  don't  care  whether 
you  believe  it  or  not  neither,"  he  added,  fiercely. 

"I  didn't  say  whether  I  believed  it  or  not,"  an 
swered  Van  Bibber,  with  grave  consideration. 

He  eyed  the  man  for  a  brief  space  without 
speaking,  and  the  burglar  looked  back  at  him,  dog 
gedly  and  defiantly,  and  with  not  the  faintest  sug 
gestion  of  hope  in  his  eyes,  or  of  appeal  for  mercy. 
Perhaps  it  was  because  of  this  fact,  or  perhaps  it 
was  the  wife  and  child  that  moved  Van  Bibber, 

222 


Van  Bibber's  Burglar 

but  whatever  his  motives  were,  he  acted  on  them 
promptly.  "I  suppose,  though,"  he  said,  as  though 
speaking  to  himself,  "that  I  ought  to  give  you 
up." 

"I'll  never  go  back  alive,"  said  the  burglar,  qui 
etly. 

"Well,  that's  bad,  too,  said. Van  Bibber.  "Of 
course  I  don't  know  whether  you're  lying  or  not, 
and  as  to  your  meaning  to  live  honestly,  I  very 
much  doubt  it;  but  I'll  give  you  a  ticket  to  wher 
ever  your  wife  is,  and  I'll  see  you  on  the  train. 
And  you  can  get  off  at  the  next  station  and  rob 
my  house  to-morrow  night,  if  you  feel  that  way 
about  it.  Throw  those  bags  inside  that  door 
where  the  servant  will  see  them  before  the  milk 
man  does,  and  walk  on  out  ahead  of  me,  and  keep 
your  hands  in  your  pockets,  and  don't  try  to  run. 
I  have  your  pistol,  you  know." 

The  man  placed  the  bags  inside  the  kitchen 
door;  and,  with  a  doubtful  look  at  his  custodian, 
stepped  out  into  the  street,  and  walked,  as  he 
was  directed  to  do,  toward  the  Grand  Central  sta 
tion.  Van  Bibber  kept  just  behind  him,  and  kept 
turning  the  question  over  in  his  mind  as  to  what 
he  ought  to  do.  He  felt  very  guilty  as  he  passed 
each  policeman,  but  he  recovered  himself  when  he 
thought  of  the  wife  and  child  who  lived  in  the 
West,  and  who  were  "straight." 

223 


Van  Bibber's   Burglar 

"Where  to?"  asked  Van  Bibber,  as  he  stood  at 
the  ticket-office  window.  "Helena,  Montana," 
answered  the  man  with,  for  the  first  time,  a  look 
of  relief.  Van  Bibber  bought  the  ticket  and 
handed  It  to  the  burglar.  "I  suppose  you  know," 
he  said,  "that  you  can  sell  that  at  a  place  down 
town  for  half  the  money."  "Yes,  I  know  that," 
said  the  burglar.  There  was  a  half-hour  before 
the  train  left,  and  Van  Bibber  took  his  charge  into 
the  restaurant  and  watched  him  eat  everything 
placed  before  him,  with  his  eyes  glancing  all  the 
while  to  the  right  or  left.  Then  Van  Bibber  gave 
him  some  money  and  told  him  to  write  to  him, 
and  shook  hands  with  him.  The  man  nodded 
eagerly  and  pulled  off  his  hat  as  the  car  drew  out 
of  the  station;  and  Van  Bibber  came  down  town 
again  with  the  shop  girls  and  clerks  going  to  work, 
still  wondering  if  he  had  done  the  right  thing. 

He  went  to  his  rooms  and  changed  his  clothes, 
took  a  cold  bath,  and  crossed  over  to  Delmonico's 
for  his  breakfast,  and,  while  the  waiter  laid  the 
cloth  in  the  cafe,  glanced  at  the  headings  in  one 
of  the  papers.  He  scanned  first  with  polite  in 
terest  the  account  of  the  dance  on  the  night  pre 
vious  and  noticed  his  name  among  those  present. 
With  greater  interest  he  read  of  the  fight  between 
"Dutchy"  Mack  and  the  "Black  Diamond,"  and 
then  he  read  carefully  how  "Abe"  Hubbard,  alias 

224 


Van   Bibber's  Burglar 

"Jimmie  the  Gent,"  a  burglar,  had  broken  jail  in 
New  Jersey,  and  had  been  traced  to  New  York. 
There  was  a  description  of  the  man,  and  Van 
Bibber  breathed  quickly  as  he  read  it.  "The  de 
tectives  have  a  clew  of  his  whereabouts,"  the  ac 
count  said;  "if  he  is  still  in  the  city  they  are  con 
fident  of  recapturing  him.  But  they  fear  that  the 
same  friends  who  helped  him  to  break  jail  will 
probably  assist  him  from  the  country  or  to  get 
out  West." 

"They  may  do  that,"  murmured  Van  Bibber  to 
himself,  with  a  smile  of  grim  contentment;  "they 
probably  will." 

Then  he  said  to  the  waiter,  "Oh,  I  don't  know. 
Some  bacon  and  eggs  and  green  things  and  cof 
fee." 


225 


VAN   BIBBER  AS   BEST   MAN 


Van  Bibber  as  Best  Man 

YOUNG  VAN  BIBBER  came  up  to  town  in 
June  from  Newport  to  see  his  lawyer  about 
the  preparation  of  some  papers  that  needed  his 
signature.  He  found  the  city  very  hot  and  close, 
and  as  dreary  and  as  empty  as  a  house  that  has 
been  shut  up  for  some  time  while  its  usual  occu 
pants  are  away  in  the  country. 

As  he  had  to  wait  over  for  an  afternoon  train, 
and  as  he  was  down  town,  he  decided  to  lunch 
at  a  French  restaurant  near  Washington  Square, 
where  some  one  had  told  him  you  could  get  par 
ticular  things  particularly  well  cooked.  The  ta 
bles  were  set  on  a  terrace  with  plants  and  flowers 
about  them,  and  covered  with  a  tricolored  awning. 
There  were  no  jangling  horse-car  bells  nor  dust 
to  disturb  him,  and  almost  all  the  other  tables  were 
unoccupied.  The  waiters  leaned  against  these  ta 
bles  and  chatted  in  a  French  argot;  and  a  co/J 
breeze  blew  through  the  plants  and  billowed  tn£ 
awning,  so  that,  on  the  whole,  Van  Bibber  was 
glad  he  had  come. 

229 


Van   Bibber  as  Best  Man 

There  was,  beside  himself,  an  old  Frenchman 
scolding  over  his  late  breakfast;  two  young  artists 
with  Van  Dyke  beards,  who  ordered  the  most  re 
markable  things  in  the  same  French  argot  that 
the  waiters  spoke;  and  a  young  lady  and  a  young 
gentleman  at  the  table  next  to  his  own.  The  young 
man's  back  was  toward  him,  and  he  could  only 
see  the  girl  when  the  youth  moved  to  one  side. 
She  was  very  young  and  very  pretty,  and  she 
seemed  in  a  most  excited  state  of  mind  from  the 
tip  of  her  wide-brimmed,  pointed  French  hat  to 
the  points  of  her  patent-leather  ties.  She  was 
strikingly  well-bred  in  appearance,  and  Van  Bibber 
wondered  why  she  should  be  dining  alone  with  so 
young  a  man. 

"It  wasn't  my  fault,"  he  heard  the  youth  say 
earnestly.  "How  could  I  know  he  would  be  out 
of  town?  and  anyway  it  really  doesn't  matter. 
Your  cousin  is  not  the  only  clergyman  in  the 
city." 

"Of  course  not,"  said  the  girl,  almost  tearfully, 
"but  they're  not  my  cousins  and  he  is,  and  that 
would  have  made  it  so  much,  oh,  so  very  much 
different.  I'm  awfully  frightened!" 

"Runaway  couple,"  commented  Van  Bibber. 
"Most  interesting.  Read  about  'em  often;  never 
seen  'em.  Most  interesting." 

He  bent  his  head  over  an  entree,  but  he  could 
230 


Van  Bibber  as  Best  Man 

not  help  hearing  what  followed,  for  the  young 
runaways  were  indifferent  to  all  around  them,  and 
though  he  rattled  his  knife  and  fork  in  a  most 
vulgar  manner,  they  did  not  heed  him  nor  lower 
their  voices. 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  said  the 
girl,  severely  but  not  unkindly.  "It  doesn't  seem 
to  me  that  you  are  exactly  rising  to  the  occa 
sion." 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  answered  the  youth,  eas 
ily.  "We're  safe  here  anyway.  Nobody  we  know 
ever  comes  here,  and  if  they  did  they  are  out  of 
town  now.  You  go  on  and  eat  something,  and 
I'll  get  a  directory  and  look  up  a  lot  of  clergy 
men's  addresses,  and  then  we  can  make  out  a  list 
and  drive  around  in  a  cab  until  we  find  one  who 
has  not  gone  off  on  his  vacation.  We  ought  to  be 
able  to  catch  the  Fall  River  boat  back  at  five  this 
afternoon;  then  we  can  go  right  on  to  Boston  from 
Fall  River  to-morrow  morning  and  run  down  to 
Narragansett  during  the  day." 

"They'll  never  forgive  us,"  said  the  girl. 

"Oh,  well,  that's  all  right,"  exclaimed  the  young 
man,  cheerfully.  "Really,  you're  the  most  uncom 
fortable  young  person  I  ever  ran  away  with.  One 
might  think  you  were  going  to  a  funeral.  You 
were  willing  enough  two  days  ago,  and  now  you 
don't  help  me  at  all.  Are  you  sorry?"  he  asked, 

231 


Van  Bibber  as  Best  Man 

and  then  added,  "but  please  don't  say  so,  even  if 
you  are." 

"No,  not  sorry,  exactly,"  said  the  girl;  "but,  in 
deed,  Ted,  it  is  going  to  make  so  much  talk.  If 
we  only  had  a  girl  with  us,  or  if  you  had  a  best 
man,  or  if  we  had  witnesses,  as  they  do  in  Eng 
land,  and  a  parish  registry,  or  something  of  that 
sort;  or  if  Cousin  Harold  had  only  been  at  home 
to  do  the  marrying." 

The  young  gentleman  called  Ted  did  not  look, 
judging  from  the  expression  of  his  shoulders,  as 
if  he  were  having  a  very  good  time. 

He  picked  at  the  food  on  his  plate  gloomily, 
and  the  girl  took  out  her  handkerchief  and  then 
put  it  resolutely  back  again  and  smiled  at  him. 
The  youth  called  the  waiter  and  told  him  to  bring 
a  directory,  and  as  he  turned  to  give  the  order 
Van  Bibber  recognized  him  and  he  recognized 
Van  Bibber.  Van  Bibber  knew  him  for  a  very 
nice  boy,  of  a  very  good  Boston  family  named 
Standish,  and  the  younger  of  two  sons.  It  was  the 
elder  who  was  Van  Bibber's  particular  friend.  The 
girl  saw  nothing  of  this  mutual  recognition,  for 
she  was  looking  with  startled  eyes  at  a  hansom 
that  had  dashed  up  the  side  street  and  was  turn 
ing  the  corner. 

"Ted,  O  Ted!"  she  gasped.  "It's  your  brother. 
There !  In  that  hansom.  I  saw  him  perfectly 

232 


Van   Bibber  as  Best  Man 

plainly.  Oh,  how  did  he  find  us?  What  shall 
we  do?" 

Ted  grew  very  red  and  then  very  white. 

"Standish,"  said  Van  Bibber,  jumping  up  and 
reaching  for  his  hat,  "pay  this  chap  for  these 
things,  will  you,  and  I'll  get  rid  of  your  brother." 

Van  Bibber  descended  the  steps  lighting  a 
cigar  as  the  elder  Standish  came  up  them  on  a 
jump. 

"Hello,  Standish!"  shouted  the  New  Yorker. 
"Wait  a  minute;  where  are  you  going?  Why,  it 
seems  to  rain  Standishes  to-day!  First  see  your 
brother;  then  I  see  you.  What's  on?" 

"You've  seen  him?"  cried  the  Boston  man, 
eagerly.  "Yes,  and  where  is  he?  Was  she  with 
him?  Are  they  married?  Am  I  in  time?" 

Van  Bibber  answered  these  different  questions 
to  the  effect  that  he  had  seen  young  Standish  and 
Mrs.  Standish  not  a  half  an  hour  before,  and  that 
they  were  just  then  taking  a  cab  for  Jersey  City, 
whence  they  were  to  depart  for  Chicago. 

"The  driver  who  brought  them  here,  and  who 
told  me  where  they  were,  said  they  could  not  have 
left  this  place  by  the  time  I  would  reach  it,"  said 
the  elder  brother,  doubtfully. 

"That's  so,"  said  the  driver  of  the  cab,  who 
had  listened  curiously.  "I  brought  'em  here  not 
more'n  half  an  hour  ago.  Just  had  time  to  get 

233 


Van  Bibber  as  Best  Man 

back  to  the  depot.  They  can't  have  gone 
long." 

"Yes,  but  they  have,"  said  Van  Bibber.  "How 
ever,  if  you  get  over  to  Jersey  City  in  time  for 
the  2.30,  you  can  reach  Chicago  almost  as  soon 
as  they  do.  They  are  going  to  the  Palmer  House, 
they  said." 

"Thank  you,  old  fellow,"  shouted  Standish, 
jumping  back  into  his  hansom.  "It's  a  terrible 
business.  Pair  of  young  fools.  Nobody  objected 
to  the  marriage,  only  too  young,  you  know.  Ever 
so  much  obliged." 

"Don't  mention  it,"  said  Van  Bibber,  politely. 

"Now,  then,"  said  that  young  man,  as  he  ap 
proached  the  frightened  couple  trembling  on  the 
terrace,  "I've  sent  your  brother  off  to  Chicago. 
I  do  not  know  why  I  selected  Chicago  as  a  place 
where  one  would  go  on  a  honeymoon.  But  I'm 
not  used  to  lying  and  I'm  not  very  good  at  it. 
Now,  if  you  will  introduce  me,  I'll  see  what  can 
be  done  toward  getting  you  two  babes  out  of  the 
woods." 

Standish  said,  "Miss  Cambridge,  this  is  Mr. 
Cortlandt  Van  Bibber,  of  whom  you  have  heard 
my  brother  speak,"  and  Miss  Cambridge  said  she 
was  very  glad  to  meet  Mr.  Van  Bibber  even  un 
der  such  peculiarly  trying  circumstances. 

"Now  what  you  two  want  to  do,"  said  Van 
234 


Van  Bibber  as  Best  Man 

Bibber,  addressing  them  as  though  they  were  just 
about  fifteen  years  old  and  he  were  at  least  forty, 
"is  to  give  this  thing  all  the  publicity  you  can." 

"What?"  chorused  the  two  runaways,  in  violent 
protest. 

"Certainly,"  said  Van  Bibber.  "You  were  about 
to  make  a  fatal  mistake.  You  were  about  to  go 
to  some  unknown  clergyman  of  an  unknown  parish, 
who  would  have  married  you  in  a  back  room,  with 
out  a  certificate  or  a  witness,  just  like  any  eloping 
farmer's  daughter  and  lightning-rod  agent.  Now 
it's  different  with  you  two.  Why  you  were  not 
married  respectably  in  church  I  don't  know,  and 
I  do  not  intend  to  ask,  but  a  kind  Providence  has 
sent  me  to  you  to  see  that  there  is  no  talk  nor 
scandal,  which  is  such  bad  form,  and  which  would 
have  got  your  names  into  all  the  papers.  I  am 
going  to  arrange  this  wedding  properly,  and  you 
will  kindly  remain  here  until  I  send  a  carriage  for 
you.  Now  just  rely  on  me  entirely  and  eat  your 
luncheon  in  peace.  It's  all  going  to  come  out  right 
— and  allow  me  to  recommend  the  salad,  which 
is  especially  good." 

Van  Bibber  first  drove  madly  to  the  Little  Church 
Around  the  Corner,  where  he  told  the  kind  old 
rector  all  about  it,  and  arranged  to  have  the  church 
open  and  the  assistant  organist  in  her  place,  and 
a  district-messenger  boy  to  blow  the  bellows,  punc- 

235 


Van  Bibber  as  Best  Man 

tually  at  three  o'clock.  "And  now,"  he  solilo 
quized,  "I  must  get  some  names.  It  doesn't  mat 
ter  much  whether  they  happen  to  know  the  high 
contracting  parties  or  not,  but  they  must  be  names 
that  everybody  knows.  Whoever  is  in  town  will 
be  lunching  at  Delmonico's,  and  the  men  will  be 
at  the  clubs."  So  he  first  went  to  the  big  restau 
rant,  where,  as  good  luck  would  have  it,  he  found 
Mrs.  "Regy"  Van  Arnt  and  Mrs.  "Jack"  Peabody, 
and  the  Misses  Brookline,  who  had  run  up  the 
Sound  for  the  day  on  the  yacht  Minerva  of  the 
Boston  Yacht  Club,  and  he  told  them  how  things 
were  and  swore  them  to  secrecy,  and  told  them  to 
bring  what  men  they  could  pick  up. 

At  the  club  he  pressed  four  men  into  service  who 
knew  everybody  and  whom  everybody  knew,  and 
when  they  protested  that  they  had  not  been  prop 
erly  invited  and  that  they  only  knew  the  bride  and 
groom  by  sight,  he  told  them  that  made  no  differ 
ence,  as  it  was  only  their  names  he  wanted.  Then 
he  sent  a  messenger  boy  to  get  the  biggest  suit  of 
rooms  on  the  Fall  River  boat  and  another  one  for 
flowers,  and  then  he  put  Mrs.  "Regy"  Van  Arnt 
into  a  cab  and  sent  her  after  the  bride,  and,  as  best 
man,  he  got  into  another  cab  and  carried  off  the 
groom. 

"I  have  acted  either  as  best  man  or  usher  forty- 
two  times  now,"  said  Van  Bibber,  as  they  drove 

236 


Van  Bibber  as  Best  Man 

to  the  church,  "and  this  is  the  first  time  I  ever 
appeared  in  either  capacity  in  russia-leather  shoes 
and  a  blue  serge  yachting  suit.  But  then,"  he 
added,  contentedly,  "you  ought  to  see  the  other 
fellows.  One  of  them  is  in  a  striped  flannel." 

Mrs.  "Regy"  and  Miss  Cambridge  wept  a  great 
deal  on  the  way  up  town,  but  the  bride  was  smiling 
and  happy  when  she  walked  up  the  aisle  to  meet 
her  prospective  husband,  who  looked  exceedingly 
conscious  before  the  eyes  of  the  men,  all  of  whom 
he  knew  by  sight  or  by  name,  and  not  one  of  whom 
he  had  ever  met  before.  But  they  all  shook  hands 
after  it  was  over,  and  the  assistant  organist  played 
the  Wedding  March,  and  one  of  the  club  men 
insisted  in  pulling  a  cheerful  and  jerky  peal  on  the 
church  bell  in  the  absence  of  the  janitor,  and  then 
Van  Bibber  hurled  an  old  shoe  and  a  handful  of 
rice — which  he  had  thoughtfully  collected  from 
the  chef  at  the  club — after  them  as  they  drove  off 
to  the  boat. 

"Now,"  said  Van  Bibber,  with  a  proud  sigh  of 
relief  and  satisfaction,  "I  will  send  that  to  the  pa 
pers,  and  when  it  is  printed  to-morrow  it  will  read 
like  one  of  the  most  orthodox  and  one  of  the 
smartest  weddings  of  the  season.  And  yet  I  can't 
help  thinking — " 

"Well?"  said  Mrs.  "Regy,"  as  he  paused  doubt 
fully. 

237 


Van  Bibber  as  Best  Man 

"Well,  T  can't  help  thinking,"  continued  Van 
Bibber,  "of  Standish's  older  brother  racing  around 
Chicago  with  the  thermometer  at  102  in  the  shade. 
I  wish  I  had  only  sent  him  to  Jersey  City.  It  just 
shows,"  he  added,  mournfully,  "that  when  a  man 
is  not  practised  in  lying,  he  should  leave  it  alone." 


238 


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